He was at present perfectly comfortable in his anomalous position regarding a search round the sea-coast for a Jay he knew to be in the Brown Borough.

“If I am going to work, I must go,” said Anonyma.  “Russ and I will go together as far as the Underground.”

She looked at herself in the glass.  The scarlet bird in her hat had an arresting expression.  As she was putting on her gloves she said, “I’m sorry, Kew, about your disappointment, not finding Nana at home last night.  But I told you so.”

She had no fear of this much-shunned phrase.

“Never mind,” said Kew mildly.  “We’ll put Christina on the track to-morrow.”

Mr. Russell said a polite Good-bye to his Hound, and accompanied his friend Anonyma to the Underground.  That was a fateful little journey for him.

As he turned from Anonyma’s side at the bookstall, he noticed a ’bus positively beckoning to him.  It had a lady conductor, and she was poised expectantly, one hand on the bell and the other beckoning to Mr. Russell.  His nature was docile, and the ’bus was bound for Chancery Lane, his destination.  He mounted the ’bus.

I need hardly tell you that a ’bus that makes deliberate advances to the public is the rarest sight in London.  The self-respecting ’bus looks upon the public as dust beneath its tyres.  Even a Brigadier-General with red tabs, on his way to Whitehall, looks pathetically humble waggling his cane at a ’bus.  All ’bus-drivers have a kingly look; it comes from their proud position.  The rest of the world is only worthy to communicate with that noble race by means of nods and becks and wreathed smiles.

“Chancery Lane, please,” said Mr. Russell.  “But why did you stop specially for me?”

“I thought your wife hailed me, sir,” lied the ’bus-conductor.

Any allusion to his wife mildly annoyed Mr. Russell.  “Not my wife,” he said.  “Merely a friend.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” said the ’bus-conductor, and underlined the “beg” with the ting of her ticket-puncher.  She was rather a darling ’bus-conductor, because she was also Jay.  She had a short, though not a fat face, soft eyes, and very soft hair cut short to just below the lobes of her ears.

A gentleman with dingy but elaborate boot-uppers hailed and mounted the ’bus.  “Shufftesbury Uvvenue?” he asked.  He said it that way, of course, because he was a Shakespearian actor.  The ’bus-conductor gave him his ticket, and then took her stand upon her platform, more or less unaware that Mr. Russell and the actor, both next to the door and opposite to each other, were looking at her with a pleased look.

Mr. Russell thought for some time, and then he said, “’T’s a b’tiful day.”

“That’s what it is,” replied the ’bus-conductor.  “I wonder if it’s wrong to enjoy being a ’bus-conductor?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Mr. Russell cautiously.  “Why?”

The ’bus-conductor waved her hand towards a State hint that shouted in letters six foot high from an opposite wall:  “Don’t use A motor car for pleasure.”  Mr. Russell read it very carefully and said nothing.