What a fool of a man that was who was driving the cart. Why couldn’t he get out of the way? That kind of labourer went to sleep, so the horses did too, of course. What was that? No. Yes, it was the Vincent boy on his motor bicycle. Mabel had been right, it was mad the pace he drove. Look at him—no, he was gone.
“Here we are in Norbury.”
“Are we? Oh, well, it is not so very far now. Yes, I can smell it. Splendid. What’s the time?”
“We have another ten minutes yet. Look, there’s the Tea Rooms, and Smith the boot shop, and Green the draper’s.”
The driver had turned out of the High Street. Only another minute. He could hardly sit still. That must be a coal dump they were passing. A train whistled. Joy. The car pulled up, he jumped out and then stood lost.
“Don’t move a step without me, dear.”
“All right.”
“You might fall on to the rails or something. Where’s Janet?”
That would indeed be an anti-climax.
“Here, John, come this way and sit on this seat.”