That night they were, oh! so kind to her!—laughing, granting her anything that she might ask—oh! so tactful!
"Poor Lucy," she could hear them say, "she had a fit of hysteria this morning. This London has been bad for her. She mustn't come here again—never again!"
In the morning the taxi was there, the bags were packed.
In the pretty green and white hall with the grandfather's clock, when Lucy tipped Fanny, the Portress, she whispered to her, "I'm coming back. They don't think I am—but I know I am. And if anyone—anyone—should ask for me, describe me, you know, so that you are sure it's me, write to me at this address."
Fanny smiled and nodded. "Now, Lucy, dear," cried Aunt Comstock, "the cab's waiting."
She was sitting in it opposite to Simon, who looked clean, but ridiculous on one of these uncomfortable third-party seats. They started up Duke Street, and turned into Piccadilly.
"I do hope you'll have a nice journey, Lucy. It's a fine day, and I've got some chocolate...."
Are not these things arranged by God?
The cab was stopped by traffic just close to St. James's Church. Lucy, truly captured now like a mouse in a trap, glanced with a last wild look through the windows. A moment later she had tumbled over Simon's knees and burst open the door. She was in the street. As she ran she was conscious of whistles sounding, boys calling, the green trees of St. James's blowing. She had touched him on the arm.