Elfreda bit her lip sharply. For the moment she had forgotten the existence of the little baronet. Almost immediately, however, she received a forcible reminder of it. Sir Toby, who had traveled lower down the long train, was to be seen emerging from the booking office.
For the last time Elfreda thrust her head into the omnibus interior. “Mind you play up, Pikey. I will write to you in a day or two.”
Poor bewildered Pikey was only able to emit a grunt of hopeless defeat before Sir Toby Philpot, in the company of his faithful body servant, Mr. O’Toole, converged upon the omnibus door. After a brief exchange of remarks with the tall footman who stood thereby, the small baronet took his seat gracefully beside the lady of the fur coat, and Mr. O’Toole hoisted his respectful bulk alongside Pikey, who was already verging once more upon the comatose.
At the same moment Elfreda felt in the very marrow of her wicked bones that the tremendous risk she was taking must end all too soon in disaster. But she was still in the thrall of the demon. The fun would be gorgeous while it lasted; it would enable certain people to realize that the times had changed; moreover, having definitely burnt her boats, this was not a moment for human weakness. Therefore she said in the private ear of the tall footman, “Don’t wait for me. I am not coming with you.” And then she turned discreetly away from the door of the omnibus, saw the right trunks put into the luggage cart and accompanied the porter with the modest residue to a dogcart twenty yards away.
Brief colloquy with a bewhiskered Jehu in a faded snuff-colored livery and a battered furry topper proved this vehicle to be from The Laurels and that it was awaiting the arrival of the London train.
“Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson?”
Jehu, who combined the functions of groom, gardener and general factotum, said gruffly that he was Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and that Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson hoped they would be able to squeeze the box of the new governess into the back of the cart without chipping the fresh paint. It took but a minute or two for the porter to dispose of the very modest luggage labeled “Cass” and to accept for his general services a fee considerably in excess of what he had reason to expect; and then the groom-gardener, one John Small by name, said curtly, “Jump in, miss. We can’t keep this ’orse standin’ here all night.”
Without showing the slightest intention to obey the order, the new governess looked at the horse in critical fashion. “I hope,” she said impersonally, “he won’t take it into his head to sit down.”
The reply, although sweetly given, did not make at all a favorable impression on Mr. Small, who was a great autocrat within his sphere; the porter, however, his heart warmed by half a crown, smiled broadly. The horse pawed impatiently and Mr. Small coughed in a hostile manner, but nothing would induce the new governess to ascend to the vacant seat by his side until the Clavering Park omnibus had actually quitted the station yard.