I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with
what happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent. Quite
different from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember that
when I was a little girl I smelt it quite often. But then there are no
best rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay with
chintz and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books, and little
tables to put your teacup on, and sofas, and armchairs. And they smell
of varnish and new furniture.

When Amabel had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots,
which were quite clean and empty except for a pearl button and two pins
in one of them, she took up the A.B.C. again to look for Whitby, where
her godmother lived. And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name
'_Whereyouwantogoto._' This was odd--but the name of the station from
which it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston or
Cannon Street or Marylebone.

The name of the station was '_Bigwardrobeinspareroom._' And below this
name, really quite unusual for a station, Amabel read in small letters:

'Single fares strictly forbidden. Return tickets No Class Nuppence.
Trains leave _Bigwardrobeinspareroom_ all the time.'

And under that in still smaller letters--

'_You had better go now._'

What would you have done? Rubbed your eyes and thought you were
dreaming? Well, if you had, nothing more would have happened. Nothing
ever does when you behave like that. Amabel was wiser. She went straight
to the Big Wardrobe and turned its glass handle.

'I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats,' she said. But she
only said it. People often say what they don't mean, so that if things
turn out as they don't expect, they can say 'I told you so,' but this is
most dishonest to one's self, and being dishonest to one's self is
almost worse than being dishonest to other people. Amabel would never
have done it if she had been herself. But she was out of herself with
anger and unhappiness.

Of course it wasn't hats. It was, most amazingly, a crystal cave, very
oddly shaped like a railway station. It seemed to be lighted by stars,
which is, of course, unusual in a booking office, and over the station
clock was a full moon. The clock had no figures, only _Now_ in shining
letters all round it, twelve times, and the _Nows_ touched, so the clock
was bound to be always right. How different from the clock you go to
sc