The next moment the door opened fully, and the pale, worn-looking woman of the accident stood before the cabman, who shuffled off his hat, and stood bowing.
“Jenkles, mum,” he said—“Samuel Jenkles, nine ’underd seven six, as knocked you down in Pall Mall.”
The woman stepped back and laid her hand upon her side, seeming about to fall, when the cabman started forward and caught her, helping her to a chair in the shabbily-furnished room, as the door swung to.
“Oh, mamma,” cried a girl of about seventeen, springing forward, the work she had been engaged upon falling on the floor.
“It is nothing, my dear,” gasped the other; though her cheek was ashy pale, and the dew gathered on her forehead.
“She’s fainting, my dear,” said the cabman. “Got anything in the house?”
“Yes, some water,” said the girl, supporting the swooning woman, and fanning her face.
“Water!” ejaculated the cabman, in a tone of disgust. “Here, I’ll be back directly.”
He caught up a little china mug from a side table, and ran out, nearly upsetting Mrs Sturt on the landing and Barney at the foot of the stairs, to return at the end of a few minutes, and find the passage vacant; so he hastily ran up, to see that Mrs Lane had come to in his absence, though she looked deadly pale.
“Here, mum,” he said, earnestly, “drink this; don’t be afeard, it’s port wine. A drop wouldn’t do you no harm neither, Miss,” he added, as he glanced at the pale, thin face and delicate aspect of the girl.