Long before noon I was well on my way to London. Luck was with me; the next day I was on a liner bound for the Atlantic run.
I shall never return to England. I intend always to keep Chilton Castle and its permanent occupant at least an ocean away.
THE MIDNIGHT BUS
Old Mrs. Twining was telling a story about imported marmalade for the third time that evening when Martha glanced at her watch.
"O my goodness!" she exclaimed, "I really must be off! If I don't hurry, I'll miss the last bus!"
Assuring her elderly hostess that she had had a most enjoyable evening, she wriggled into her coat, scurried into the vestibule and was soon off the veranda steps and down the garden walk.
Mrs. Twining was an old dear—but she was tedious at times, Martha thought as she swung open the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. Goodness! Here it was almost midnight and Mrs. Twining was going on about marmalade for the third time! Lucky she'd looked at her watch.
She had rushed out in such a hurry, she was well down the walk before she noticed the fog. Rising from the nearby river, it was thickening in the empty streets. The lights looked dim and faraway; the whole suburb seemed muffled and silent.
Shivering a little, Martha reached the bus stop and sat down on the cold bench. Glancing along the street, she saw that it was quite empty. The river fog was swirling in rapidly and now even the trunks of trees were becoming blurred and half-shadowy.
It was too bad, Martha thought, that people had to become old. Old and lonely and hungry for talk. Leading such dreary, uneventful lives that a little thing like imported marmalade assumed vast importance.