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Pigeons and sparrows hopped about unconcernedly. On
the file of cabs, just perceptible through the foliage, the
cabmen lolled in listless attitudes. Sir Bartle Frere stolidly
kept his back to me, not the least interested in this Gilbert a
Becket story. I always thought something was wrong with that
man's character.
What on earth could I tell her to do? The best course was to
find the infernal Harry. I asked her how she came to lose him.
It appears he escorted her ashore at Southampton, after having
scarcely set eyes on her during the voyage, put her into a
railway carriage with strict injunctions not to stir until he
claimed her, and then disappeared into space.
"Did he give you your ticket?"
"No."
"What a young blackguard!" I exclaimed.
"I don't like him at all," she said.
How she managed to elude the ticket collector at Vauxhall I could
not exactly discover. Apparently she told him, in her confiding
manner, that Harry had it, and when he found no Harry in the
train and came back to say so, she turned her dewy imploring eyes
on him and the sentimental varlet melted.


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