“Nobody: not if it’s me you mean. I’d like to see him put his arm round my waist! He’d never forget it!”
“He wouldn’t forget himself anyway,” said Trenter, relieved.
She tossed her head sceptically.
“Oh, I don’t know!” she said, and nodded to a warm, large woman in the gingham and apron of her profession. “Ask cook!”
Trenter was dazed.
“Good God!—not you, cook?” he asked in a whisper.
Happily Mrs. Magglesark was not a quick thinker.
“Yes; I saw him too,” she said, and Eleanor, in terror that the telling of the story should go elsewhere, trod on the opening of the cook’s narrative.
“Me and cook—that is to say cook and I—were on top of a ’bus last Sunday——”
“In Knightsbridge.” Thus the cook claimed her equal share of the copyright.