“Fairies!” cried Vansittart.
“Who can it be, and why are we stopping?” asked Miss Champernowne, “when we are so late, too!”
There were voices, two or three feminine voices, all talking at once, and then Hubert was heard answering. Anon more laughter. Sir Hubert and a groom got off the ’bus, and the former came to the door.
“Can you make room for three girls?” he asked.
“Not for a mouse,” replied his wife. “We are hideously crushed already. I believe all our gowns are spoilt.”
“Then a little more squeezing won’t hurt,” said Sir Hubert. “Look here, you three men can come outside. It’ll be a tight pack, but we’ll manage it, and the three ladies can have your places. It’s a lovely night. You’re none of you bronchial, I hope.”
“A chronic sufferer, from my cradle,” said Mr. Tivett, in a meek, little voice.
“Oh, Tivett can stay inside. He is the nearest approach I know to Euclid’s definition of a line—length without breadth.”
Jack Vansittart was out by this time, and Reggie Hudson, a soldierly young man, slipped out after him. The women drew themselves together discontentedly. Each would have had an omnibus to herself if she could.
“I haven’t the faintest idea whom we are making room for,” grumbled Maud.