She stamped a small foot, bright in its patent-leather shoe.
"Aren't you going to do anything?" she demanded.
"I am already composing a letter to the absent traffic superintendent which will spoil his holiday. I shall say that, in spite of the fact that the dark lady with the eyes and the seal-skin coat asked the porter with the nose—"
"Idiot. Can't you do anything now?"
"I can wave to the engine-driver as we go round a bend if you think it's any good, or, of course, there's always the communication cord, only—"
I broke off and looked at her. There was trouble in her great eyes. The small foot tapped the floor nervously. One gloved hand gripped the arm of her seat. I could have sworn the red lips quivered a moment ago. I leaned forward.
"Lass," I said, "is it important that you should be at Friars Rory this morning?"
She looked up quickly. Then, with a half-laugh, "I did want to rather," she said. "But it can't be helped. You see, my mare, Dear One—she's been taken ill, and—and—oh, I am a fool," she said, turning away, her big eyes full of tears.
"No, you're not," said I sturdily, patting her hand.
"I know what it is to have a sick horse. Buck up, lass! We'll be there within the hour."