"You know"—and Sir S. turned to Mrs. West—"we're delighted to keep you as our guests."
"You are good," she answered, "but—we mustn't wear out our welcome."
"Don't be afraid of that." (I did so wish I could have been sure whether his tone was eager or only cordial! Probably Mrs. West was wishing the same.)
"Thanks a thousand times, but we'll sample our own car for a while. We shall meet and exchange impressions. And perhaps—after Edinburgh——"
She broke off, leaving the rest to our imagination. Mine was so lively that it gave my heart a pinch. I could see what she meant as clearly as if she had held a photograph before my eyes: me, with mother, waving good-byes from a hotel door; she and her brother transferred permanently to the Gray Dragon, the Row forgotten; Blunderbore's nose turned meekly back toward Carlisle; Mrs. James out of the picture. Just for an instant I could have cried. Then I reminded myself for the twentieth time that in a few days nothing can matter, because I shall have my own dear, beautiful mother, who will make up to me for everybody and everything else.
I don't know how I should have borne it if Mrs. James had wanted to sit in front, but the angel didn't. And presently there was I in my old place, feeling as if weeks instead of hours had elapsed (yes "elapsed" is the most distance-expressing word) since I last sat shoulder to shoulder with Sir S.
That feeling of long-ago-ness made me a little shy, and to save my life I couldn't think of a word to say except about the weather; so I said nothing at all, and he said the same. By and by I began to count. When I had got up to five hundred, and still he hadn't spoken, I knew I should certainly burst if nothing happened before a thousand.
"Well?" he murmured at last in an isolated way.
"Five hundred and eighty-six," I counted aloud inadvertently.
"Eh?" said he.