Further, John’s eye fell upon a pair of gloves which in his opinion were all that a pair of gloves should not be. They were made of black cotton and were very freely darned; and, as if this were not enough, the right glove was clasped round the handle of a wicker basket of a dreadfully rural, not to say common, character. The lid, which was secured by a piece of string, had a great air of uncertainty about it. At any moment it threatened to give way to the weight it had to bear. And as if all these unlucky details did not themselves suffice, there was a “growler” immediately opposite the sacred precincts; while at that very moment a red-faced and festive-looking cabman was toiling up the steps with a dilapidated wooden box, tied by a cord which had been pieced in three places.
In the circumstances there was only one thing for John to do. This John did with great energy and conviction. He sniffed.
At almost the same moment a perfectly ludicrous drawl assailed his ears.
“Does Aunt Caroline live here, please?” said the occupant of the doorstep.
It is not too much to say that John was nonplused by the question.
“This is the residence of the Countess of Crewkerne,” said he with hauteur.
Unhappily, the effect of this announcement was marred by the officious behavior of the cabman. That worthy was oppressed by no sense of embarrassment. With a wheeze and a grunt which were wholly unnecessary, because the box contained so little, he made his way past its owner with ostentatious heaviness, and was about to bring it into forcible contact with John’s best suit of livery, when the custodian of the portals realized that it was a time for action.
“Don’t bring it in,” said he, sternly. “Stay where you are. I will make inquiries.”
With a glance, not to the cabman only, but to the wearer of the inverted vegetable basket also, which intimated that they crossed that threshold upon peril of their lives, John turned upon his heel. He walked across the entrance-hall to confer with his chief, who of course was no less a personage than Mr. Marchbanks himself.
The conference was grave, but it was brief. Mr. Marchbanks came forward in his own inimitable manner, only to find that the fair intruder, preposterous hat, hooded cloak, cobbled boots, darned gloves and all, had had the temerity to enter.