“It’s her ladyship,” cried Louisa, clutching Erb’s arm.
“Good shot,” agreed Erb.
“If only she’d look up and recognise us,” said Louisa. The other people on the tram began to take an interest in the encounter, and Louisa’s head already trembled with pride.
“She wouldn’t recognise us.”
“Go on with you,” contradicted his sister.
Louisa was afflicted with a sudden cough of such eccentric timbre that some might have declared it to be forced. People on the pavement looked up at her surprisedly, and Lady Frances just then closing her scarlet parasol, for the use of which, indeed, the evening gave but little reason, also glanced upwards. Erb took off his hat and jerked a bow, and Louisa noticed that the closed scarlet parasol was being waved invitingly. She unhooked the tarpaulin cover at once, and, despite Erb’s protestation that they had paid fares to the Elephant, hurried him down the steps. To Louisa’s great delight, the tram, with its absorbedly interested passengers, did not move until the two had reached the open landau, and Lady Frances’s neatly-gloved hand had offered itself in the most friendly way. Louisa declared later that she would have given all that she had in the Post Office Savings Bank to have heard the comments of the passengers.
“This,” said Lady Frances pleasantly, “is the long arm of coincidence. Step in both of you, please, and let me take you home to your place.”
“If you don’t mind excusing us—” began Erb.
(“Oh you—you man,” said his sister to herself. “I can’t call you anything else.”)
“Please, please,” begged Lady Frances. They stepped in. By a great piece of good luck,’ Erb remembered that amongst the recipes and axioms and words of advice on the back page of an evening paper he had a night or two previously read that gentlemen should always ride with their backs to the horses, and he took his seat opposite to Lady Frances: that young woman, with a touch on Louisa’s arm, directed the short girl to be seated at her side.