“No fear of that. I’ve grown a bit heavier since I saw your face,” Clara replied, climbing serenely to the top of the omnibus. “Two, as far as you go,” she said, handing twopence to the conductor when he came up for the fares.
“I could go a long way with you, miss,” he said, punching the tickets with a satisfied twinkle. “What a lovely hat!”
“Is it? Well, don’t start in trying to eat it because you’ve been used to green food all your life.”
“Your sister answers very sharp, doesn’t she, Tommy?” said the conductor to Sylvia.
After this display of raillery Sylvia felt it would be weak merely to point out that Clara was not a sister, so she remained silent.
The top of the omnibus was empty except for Clara and Sylvia; the conductor, whistling a cheerful tune, descended again.
“Saucy things,” Clara commented. “But there, you can’t blame them. It makes any one feel cheerful to be out in the open air like this.”
Maudie’s house in Castleford Road was soon reached after they left the omnibus. When they rang the area bell, Maudie herself opened the door.
“Oh, you did give me a turn!” she exclaimed. “I thought it was early for the milkman. You couldn’t have come at a better time, because they’ve both gone away. She’s been ill, and they’ll be away for a month. Cook’s gone for a holiday, and I’m all alone.”
Sylvia was presented formally to the hostess; and when, at Clara’s prompting, she had told the story of her grandmother’s death, conversation became easy. Maudie Tilt took them all over the house, and, though Clara said she should die of nervousness, insisted upon their having tea in the drawing-room.