Mrs Lane clenched her teeth as she crushed the letter in her hand, then raised her eyes to see the cabman at the door, with her daughter kissing his hand.
“Oh, God!” she moaned, “has it come to this!”
The next minute Netta was clinging to her, and they wept in unison as the sound of wheels was heard; and Sam Jenkles apostrophised his ugly steed.
“Ratty,” he said, “I wonder what it feels like to be a fool—whether it’s what I feels just now?”
There was a crack of the whip here, and the hansom trundled along.
“How many half-pints are there in thirty bob, I wonder?” said Sam again.
And then, as he turned into the main road at Upper Holloway, he pulled up short—to the left London, to the right over the hills to the country.
“Not above four or five mile, Ratty, and then there’ll be no missus to meet. Ratty, old man, I think I’d better drive myself to Colney Hatch.”