"Jane?" replied Ben. "You don't mean Jane Bunce?"
"Yes," said the girl. "The one who was with the Colonel and his lady for so long and only left to be married."
"Of course," said Ben. "We are all very fond of her. I can remember her perfectly, although I was so small. I hope she is all right."
"Yes," said the girl. "But father——"
"Tell me," said Ben.
"It's like this," said the girl. "Father's been ill now for months and months, and somehow mother heard about you setting up here as a kind of advice-giver. And she said 'You go along to Miss Ben's and ask her. I'm sure she wouldn't object, for old sake's sake.'"
"Tell me," said Ben again.
"It's like this," the girl resumed. "Father's been ill for months and months, and you know what sick folks are, how they get their minds set on things? Well, he sits in a chair at the window watching the motor-cars go by. We're in Peckham, you know, and motor-cars go by all the time, and even more on Sundays, and—well, miss—he's never been in one in his life. In motor-buses, yes, but never in a car. Motor-buses don't count. They've got solid tyres; they're public. But a shiny private car with rubber tyres, all his own for the time being—he's never been in one of those; and he sits there at the window and it's his only wish. But you see, miss, he can't ever do it now, because he's that weak, and the doctor only gives him another two or three days."
"Well?" said Ben.
"Well," the girl went on, dabbing her eyes, "well, mother told me to come and ask you if you think it would be very wrong—too extravagant, I mean—if we were to give him a motor funeral? As a surprise, miss, of course? What do you think, miss? What may I tell mother?"