Outside the gate was what, in the semi-darkness, looked uncommonly like an ordinary farmer's cart, and not too comfortable, or cleanly, an example of its class. Mrs. Lamb stared at it in disgust.
"Have you brought that thing for me?"
As regards manners the driver seemed to be a near relation of the railway official's, if anything his were more pronounced.
"I don't know who you are. How am I to know?"
"I'm Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame of Pitmuir."
"Oh; that's what you call yourself--ah!"
"You appear to be an impudent fellow."
"And you appear to be a free-spoken woman."
"How dare you talk to me like that? I ask you again, have you brought this thing for me?"
"I've brought this thing, as you call it, which is as decent a cart as ever you saw, and more decent maybe than you deserve to sit in, to carry the person as calls herself Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame to Pitmuir, and I'm beginning to wish I hadn't."