George turned swiftly round on me.
“Look here, can you hold your tongue, Sam?”
I nodded.
“Then I’m hanged if I won’t point her out to you?”
“That’s uncommon good of you, George,” said I.
“Then you’ll see,” continued George. “But it’s not only her looks, you know, she’s the most—”
He stopped. Looking round to see why, I observed that his face was red; he clutched his walking stick tightly in his left hand; his right hand was trembling, as if it wanted to jump up to his hat. “Here she comes! Look, look!” he whispered.
Directing my eyes towards the lines of carriages which rolled past us, I observed a girl in a victoria; by her side sat a portly lady of middle age. The girl was decidedly like the lady; a description of the lady would not, I imagine, be interesting. The girl blushed slightly and bowed. George and I lifted our hats. The victoria and its occupants were gone. George leant back with a sigh. After a moment, he said:
“Well, that was her.”
There was expectancy in his tone.