The car whirled them to the other end of the City, and they began systematically to do everything and to see everything that could be done and seen, from the captive balloon (not that they did that—they were content to see it) to the Soudanese native village, from the circus to the exhibition relating to Woman, from the cricket field to the Freak Show, and from the Art Galleries to the ladies’ afternoon-tea café. They were in the ladies’ afternoon-tea café and paying for two pots of tea, seven cakes, and an extra cream, just as the clock struck five. It then occurred to them that a concert of military music began at precisely five o’clock in the Oriental Gardens, and they decided to go and listen to it, even though, sad to say, Carpentaria never conducted in person till the evening.
They crossed the Central Way, and were strolling along the avenue to the Gardens, when Pauline stopped.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed.
“What is it?”
Coming down the steps of Ilam’s bungalow was the great Ilam himself, and it was to Ilam she pointed.
“What shall we do?” whispered Rosie. “He’s lots older, isn’t he?... And you said we shouldn’t meet him!”
They walked on, irresolute and blushing, and just as they arrived opposite Ilam’s gate, with their eyes gazing studiously straight in front of them, Ilam called out:
“Hi, there! Young ladies!”
Now, the avenue was generously sprinkled with people, but Pauline and Rosie happened to be the only young ladies within hail, and to have ignored such a loud and unmistakable appeal as Ilam’s would have drawn down upon them more public attention than they desired. They therefore stopped, still blushing, but delightfully blushing, and smiling with that innate kindliness of heart which distinguished both of them. Rosie spoke first. She was a woman, and had positively stated that under the circumstances she should not speak. Hence, naturally, she spoke first.
“Good afternoon, cousin,” said she.