He didn't answer, didn't turn, didn't so much as nod his head. He stared forward into the fog and Martha imagined that he hadn't even heard her.
But of course he must have. It was simply that the fog made driving hazardous and his entire attention was concentrated on the street ahead.
Trying to stifle her irritation, Martha leaned her head back against the seat and attempted to relax. But the top of the seat was hard and cold and she soon sat up straight again.
She suddenly realized that she was shivering. What a bore! She must be catching cold! But the bus did seem frigid. She could scarcely keep her teeth from chattering.
And now a new vexation caught her attention. In spite of the almost opaque wall of fog, the bus driver was steadily increasing the speed of his vehicle. The bus careened along at a constantly accelerated rate, bumping and lurching and swaying from side to side.
Martha felt a funny little knot of fear and apprehension begin to tighten in her breast. For a block or two she held tight to her seat, stifling an urge to shout at the driver, but finally she could stand it no longer.
"Driver," she called out in a strained voice which didn't sound at all like her own, "you're going much too fast! Won't you please slow down?"
As if in response, and without paying her any other heed, the driver managed a new and positively fearful burst of speed. The bus thundered ahead until the fog seemed to be going by in white streamers of light.
Fighting back rising hysteria, Martha stood up. "Driver! Please! We'll be killed!"
For the first time the driver turned. In the poor light, his face under the visor of his driver's cap looked as blurred and white as the fog outside.