Where they led, other members of the troupe followed. First was a group of strutting, long-haired actors of varying ages along with some pretty, perfumed, gesticulating young actresses, eager to grab their share of attention. Behind these preening peacocks was a motley stage crew, noticeably less well-dressed and marked by an air of collective resignation. The cavalcade was completed by a line of porters wheeling well-worn trunks on their rumbling trolleys or carrying costume baskets, scenery and stage properties on their rattling carts. Buckmaster's Players were on the move. They surged on to the platform as if commandeering the whole train. A strict order of precedence was observed. While the two luminaries headed for a first class carriage, the other artistes had to travel second class and the remainder of the company was forced to supervise the loading of the luggage and the theatrical paraphernalia before being received into the comfortless embrace of third class.

Buckmaster opened a carriage door with a flourish so that Kitty could step into the compartment. When he climbed in after her, he shut the door, flung off his hat, whisked off his cloak and sat with his back to the engine. Kate lowered herself on to the seat opposite him. Now that there were no spectators to impress, she let her features rearrange themselves into an expression of sheer boredom.

'I hate all this travelling, Nigel,' she said, peevishly.

'Needs must when the devil drives,' he told her. 'If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain.'

'Why can we not play at Drury Lane or Covent Garden?'

'Because they don't yet deserve us, my love,' he said with a grandiloquent gesture. 'Until they do, we must seek pastures new.'

Kate sighed. 'But why on earth must we do so in Wales?' she complained, bitterly. 'It's like being cast into outer darkness.'

Twenty minutes later, just before the train was due to depart, two figures suddenly appeared outside their carriage.