“I still am. One of me is quite a good sort, really, almost an ‘Oh, my dear’ girl. She is the one who was described in the paper as ‘Boadicea Smith, a young woman of prepossessing appearance.’ The reporter went on to say that the name was probably assumed—(which it was)—and that he knew who I really was—(which he didn’t). He hinted that I was a deluded patrician incog. Do you know, I treasure that paragraph as if it were a love-letter. It’s the only compliment I ever had.”
“I should like to shake the hand of that reporter,” said the gardener.
“But after that he referred to me all through as ‘Smith,’ without prefix, which is the sign of a criminal.”
“The puppy!” exclaimed the gardener.
“What were you doing to get into the paper?” asked Courtesy sternly. “I never get into the paper.”
“It’s inconceivable that you should get into the paper, Courtesy dear,” said the gardener, “except when you get born or married or dead.”
“It’d be like a sultana in a seed-cake,” said the suffragette, “or like a sunrise at tea-time. Or as if a Forty-nine ’bus went to the Bank.”
I really think she was a little delirious, and perhaps she felt it herself, for she added apologetically, “I always think Forty-nine is such an innocent ’bus, it never knows the City.”
Next morning it was raining in the persistently militant sort of way reserved by the weather for public holidays.
“A pity,” said the gardener at breakfast. “I meant to take you over to the village to introduce you to Mr. Rust. And there are no ’buses or taxis here.”