There was not a soul in the car.

Then Mrs Clayton Vernon came hurrying up the slope of Duck Bank and signalled to Chadwick to wait for her.  He gave her a wave of the arm, kindly and yet deferential, as if to say, “Be at ease, noble dame!  You are in the hands of a man of the world, who knows what is due to your position.  This car shall stay here till you reach it, even if Thomas Chadwick loses his situation for failing to keep time.”

And Mrs Clayton Vernon puffed into the car.  And Thomas Chadwick gave her a helping hand, and raised his official cap to her with a dignified sweep; and his glance seemed to be saying to the world, “There, you see what happens when I deign to conduct a car!  Even Mrs Clayton Vernon travels by car then.”  And the whole social level of the electric tramway system was apparently uplifted, and conductors became fine, portly court-chamberlains.

For Mrs Clayton Vernon really was a personage in the town—­perhaps, socially, the leading personage.  A widow, portly as Tommy himself, wealthy, with a family tradition behind her, and the true grand manner in every gesture!  Her entertainments at her house at Hillport were unsurpassed, and those who had been invited to them seldom forgot to mention the fact.  Thomas, a person not easily staggered, was nevertheless staggered to see her travelling by car to Moorthorne—­even in his car, which to him in some subtle way was not like common cars—­for she was seldom seen abroad apart from her carriage.  She kept two horses.  Assuredly both horses must be laid up together, or her coachman ill.  Anyhow, there she was, in Thomas’s car, splendidly dressed in a new spring gown of flowered silk.

“Thank you,” she said very sweetly to Chadwick, in acknowledgment of his assistance.

Then three men of no particular quality mounted the car.

“How do, Tommy?” one of them carelessly greeted the august conductor.  This impertinent youth was Paul Ford, a solicitor’s clerk, who often went to Moorthorne because his employer had a branch office there, open twice a week.

Tommy did not respond, but rather showed his displeasure.  He hated to be called Tommy, except by a few intimate coevals.

“Now then, hurry up, please!” he said coldly.

“Right oh! your majesty,” said another of the men, and they all three laughed.

What was still worse, they all three wore the Federationist rosette, which was red to the bull in Thomas Chadwick.  It was part of Tommy’s political creed that Federationists were the “rag, tag, and bob-tail” of the town.  But as he was a tram-conductor, though not an ordinary tram-conductor, his mouth was sealed, and he could not tell his passengers what he thought of them.

Just as he was about to pull the starting bell, Mrs Clayton Vernon sprang up with a little “Oh, I was quite forgetting!” and almost darted out of the car.  It was not quite a dart, for she was of full habit, but the alacrity of her movement was astonishing.  She must have forgotten something very important.