He supported her, and she found that she could just hobble.
“Rotten luck!” she said. “I was going to a dance. Don’t you love dancing? Just like me, though; if there’s ever any trouble going, I get it. I shall have to go home now.”
“Is it far?”
“Not far. The busses go by. Any old bus from that corner.” They had come to a circus where many roads meet. “Mitcham Mews. Number six. Don’t you trouble. You just put me into the bus.”
“But I must see you home.”
“I ’spect you got someone waiting for you. ’Tain’t fair to spoil your fun.”
“This is much better fun than anything I can imagine doing!”
“’Tain’t my idea of fun, helping a lame duck over a stile. It’s good of you, anyway. Penny fare.”
They boarded a bus and she leaned down and prodded at her ankle to discover where and how much it hurt.
“It’s only ricked, I think,” she said. “It feels like your neck when your head goes gammy. I don’t think it’s a sprain.”