Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle’s face was not of the expressive order.
“Post office still going strong?” asked Jack Herring.
“The post office ’as been a great ’elp to me,” admitted Mrs. Postwhistle; “and I’m not forgetting that I owe it to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” murmured Jack Herring.
They brought her presents—nothing very expensive, more as tokens of regard: dainty packets of sweets, nosegays of simple flowers, bottles of scent. To Somerville “Miss Bulstrode” hinted that if he really did desire to please her, and wasn’t merely talking through his hat—Miss Bulstrode apologised for the slang, which, she feared, she must have picked up from her brother—he might give her a box of Messani’s cigarettes, size No. 2. The suggestion pained him. Somerville the Briefless was perhaps old-fashioned. Miss Bulstrode cut him short by agreeing that he was, and seemed disinclined for further conversation.
They took her to Madame Tussaud’s. They took her up the Monument. They took her to the Tower of London. In the evening they took her to the Polytechnic to see Pepper’s Ghost. They made a merry party wherever they went.
“Seem to be enjoying themselves!” remarked other sightseers, surprised and envious.
“Girl seems to be a bit out of it,” remarked others, more observant.
“Sulky-looking bit o’ goods, I call her,” remarked some of the ladies.
The fortitude with which Miss Bulstrode bore the mysterious disappearance of her brother excited admiration.