“Oh no, I am not at all interesting,” I replied.
“Here is a cup of tea, love.” She handed me one.
“Ought I not,” I said, “to wait for Augusta?”
“Dear me, no! on no account. She will probably not come in at all. Doubtless by now she has forgotten that you are in the house.”
I could not help laughing.
“But doesn’t she ever eat?”
“I bring her her food. She takes it then without knowing what she is taking. She is a very strange child.”
“Well,” I said as I helped myself to a very nice piece of hot cake, “I don’t think I should have got her here to-day without pinching and poking her. She took me quite a long way round. I believe,” I added, “that I shall not be able to get back, for I don’t know this part of London well.”
“I will take you to the Twopenny Tube myself, dear. Don’t imagine for a single instant that you will see anything more of Augusta.”
When I discovered that this was really the case I gave myself up to the enjoyment of Mrs Moore’s pleasant society. She was a very nice woman, not at all commonplace—at least, if that meant commonplace, it was a very good thing to be. She was practical, and had a great deal of sense. She talked to me about my life, and about my father, and said she wished we lived a little nearer.