“No, but the train is. We have three minutes. I'll run and get the tickets. How is it that you are so late?”
“I just missed the train.”
“What train?”
“The Metropolitan.”
“The Metropolitan? What nonsense! Why didn't you take a cab?”
She had been afraid of spending the money, fearing she might not see him after all; and out of breath she followed him along the platform. “No, not in there; I don't like travelling alone with gentlemen.” Frank looked at her in amazement, and they got into a carriage where an old gentleman was sitting.
“So you thought I wouldn't come, you naughty boy?”
“Oh, I should have been so disappointed. I don't know what I should have done.”
Lizzie watched the young aristocratic face; his earnestness drew her towards him, and she wondered she did not like him better. “Now tell me what we are going to do. I had such difficulty in getting away. It is against the rules; and the manageress (the fat woman who stands at the end of the bar and goes round and collects the money) hates me. She would have stopped me if she could, but I went to the manager; he is a friend of mine.”
“That fellow with the long fair moustache that walks about at the rate of seven miles an hour, with his frock-coat all unbuttoned. Harding the novelist—the fellow I was sitting with the other night, said such a good thing—he said he was a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters. I don't know why it is good, but it is; whether it is the colour of his face and moustache—”