THE gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop's Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing his seat drove his elbow into my hat.
"Bless me! I'm always doing that. Most extraordinary! I'm sure I beg your pardon."
I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other arm—the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman—and continued to rock it mechanically.
The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. "Why," I asked myself, "do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting eyes, want to change their place in a bus?"
The suspicion came—and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver's whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted to the roof.
The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance, he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman, who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.
As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and, as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl's waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.
And then I noticed a curious disturbance—only a momentary rise and fall—in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could tell, had moved. The girl's hands were lying in her lap, precariously clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.