I turned back into the hotel to look for the driver of the char-à-banc and try to bargain with him for a seat to London. Mrs. Cotesham, almost undistinguishable in rugs and wraps, was seated on a chair, watching the carrying out of her luggage, all neatly wrapped, after the continental fashion, in brown holland covers. She counted the articles one by one as they passed, muttering to herself all the time.
"Never another shilling shall any railway porter have so long as I live!—eleven—one more. And as to the management of this hotel, I call it disgraceful! Flung out like cattle, that's what's happening to us!"
Mr. Grant, also attired for motoring, came shuffling along. He picked up Mrs. Cotesham's speaking trumpet.
"Got any one to take you in?" he asked.
She snatched it away from him.
"Of course I have," she answered. "I'm not a miserable, disagreeable old curmudgeon like you! My friends are glad to have me pay them a visit."
Mr. Grant chuckled.
"Gladder to get rid of you, I know!"
His eye fell upon me.
"Well, young Mr. Musician," he went on, "how are you going to get away? Pad the hoof, eh, as your sort used to a few hundred years ago?"