“Thank you so much—thank you ever so much,” twittered the lady of the green ulster, at the same time inadvertently barging the end of the pilgrim basket into the middle of the middle prices on page eight of the Times newspaper.
A patient jobber from the oil market, en route to Croome Lodge for an hour’s golf, looked gently at the green ulster, looked at it less in anger than in divine resignation, over the top of his tortoise-shell pince-nez. One had to rub shoulders with all sorts of queer people these times! Still the Armistice was signed and Burmahs were up another half crown.
“This train is already twelve minutes late.” Miss Fur Coat announced the fact after a glance at almost the last thing in wrist watches on almost the last thing in wrists, and then assumed the best seat in the compartment, the one next the door with the back to the engine.
The tortoise-shell pince-nez peered over the top of Court and Society on page six. It looked slowly up and down Miss Fur Coat and then transferred an expert gaze to Pikey and the other lady. Before the head office could register any conclusion on a matter which really did not call for comment, a message was received from another department to ask what price Shells had closed at. And there for the time being the incident ended as far as the Oil Market was concerned—ended almost before it began. For nothing whatever had happened, so it really did not amount to an incident. All the same, something was about to happen.
II
The Inspector came along to look at the tickets.
“You must either pay excess or change into a third,” he said firmly at the sight of the third class ticket.
“But there’s no room,” its owner faltered. It is a phrase no longer in vogue in the best novels, but the little lady of the green ulster was of the faltering type.
“Plenty of room presently.” So firm was the Inspector he might have been Marshal Foch himself. “Meantime you must find a place somewhere else.”
At this cruel mandate the little lady shivered under her bright thin garment.