The man looked at her.
“You’ll have to wait your turn, Miss, there’s twelve ahead of you. This here unexpected snowstorm makes cabs in great demand.”
Helen saw that many others were more or less patiently waiting and resigned herself to wait, too.
Her mind turned back to the music, and she drew out her programme to regret anew the numbers she had missed.
A long time she stood there, studying the names of the performers and their selections,—so absorbed that she did not notice the deepening dusk, the thickening snowflakes and the rapidly rising wind.
“It’s fierce, Miss,” the starter said to her, at last. “I’m going to get you that cab the very minute I can,—but I dunno when ’twill be.”
“What?” said Bumble, looking up. “Oh, yes,—I do want a cab. Why, how it is snowing! Get one quick, please.”
“I say I can’t,” and the man looked honestly anxious, for Helen had an irresponsible air and the hour was growing late.
“Can’t you telephone for your own car, Miss,” he said, by way of a hint.
“No; I can’t, Patty wants it,—I mean,” she suddenly realised where she was. “I mean, the others of the family need our car. I must have a cab.”