do not commonly go about with hot potatoes concealed on their persons.  For she was a self-confident woman, and after a decision she did not reflect, nor did she heed minor consequences.  She was always sure that what she was doing was the right and the only thing to do.  And, to give her justice, it was; for her direct, abrupt common sense was indeed remarkable.  The act of climbing up into the car warned her that she must be skilful in the control of these potatoes; one of them nearly fell out of the right end of her muff as she grasped the car rail with her right hand.  She had to let go and save the potato, and begin again, while the car waited.  The conductor took her for one of those hesitating, hysterical women who are the bane of car conductors.  “Now, missis!” he said.  “Up with ye!” But she did not care what manner of woman the conductor took her for.

The car was nearly full of people going home from their work, of people actually going in a direction contrary to the direction of the Musical Festival.  She sat down among them, shocked by this indifference to the Musical Festival.  At the back of her head had been an idea that all the cars for Hanbridge would be crammed to the step, and all the cars from Hanbridge forlorn and empty.  She had vaguely imagined that the thoughts of a quarter of a million of people would that evening be centred on the unique Musical Festival.  And she was shocked also by the conversation—­not that it was in the slightest degree improper—­but because it displayed no interest whatever in the Musical Festival.  And yet there were several Festival advertisements adhering to the roof of the car.  Travellers were discussing football, soap, the weather, rates, trade; travellers were dozing; travellers were reading about starting prices; but not one seemed to be occupied with the Musical Festival.  “Nevertheless,” she reflected with consoling pride, “if they knew that our Gilbert was playing ’cello in the orchestra and dining at this very moment with Mr Millwain, some of them would be fine and surprised, that they would!” No one would ever have suspected, from her calm, careless, proud face, that such vain and two-penny thoughts were passing through her head.  But the thoughts that do pass through the heads of even the most common-sensed philosophers, men and women, are truly astonishing.

In four minutes she was at Bursley Town Hall, where she changed into another car—­full of people equally indifferent to the Musical Festival—­for the suburb of Hillport, where Mrs Clayton Vernon lived.

“Put me out opposite Mrs Clayton Vernon’s, will you?” she said to the conductor, and added, “you know the house?”

He nodded as if to say disdainfully in response to such a needless question:  “Do I know the house?  Do I know my pocket?”

As she left the car she did catch two men discussing the Festival, but they appeared to have no intention of attending it.  They were earthenware manufacturers.  One of them raised his hat to her.  And she said to herself:  “He at any rate knows how important my Gilbert is in the Festival!”