[Illustration]

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, “for telling me.  Then I must be getting my ticket ready.  I’ve got it quite safely.  Such a lot of money it did seem to pay for a ride to London!  But TOM would have me come.  He never forgets his old Mother.”  She undid her reticule and took out her purse; she undid the purse and took out a folded paper; she unfolded the paper and took out the ticket.  Then she put the paper back in the purse, and the purse back in the reticule.  She held the ticket gingerly between two fingers of her cotton-gloved hand, as if it were a delicate fruit, and she were afraid of rubbing the bloom off it.

“What a refreshing contrast to our city ways!” thought the Stockbroker.

“How characteristic!” thought the Curate.

“My word! there’s one of my hair-pins coming out,” said the Old Lady, suddenly.  The hand which held the ticket flew to the back of her head, to put the hair-pin right.

And then, all at once, the look of animation died out of the Old Lady’s face.  She seemed utterly aghast and horror-stricken.  She gasped out an unintelligible interjection.

“What’s the matter, Ma’am?” asked the Stockbroker.

“My ticket’s gone!  I was putting that hair-pin right, and the ticket slipped out of my fingers, and dropped down the back of my neck between my clothes and—­and myself.  What shall I do when that gentleman comes for the tickets?”

The Curate blushed violently.  In his boyhood’s days he had put halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until they percolated out in the region of his boots.  He had only just checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and jump.

The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her.  He was a season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector.  He would explain it to the man.  “You’ll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you—­I mean, later on.”  The British love of euphemism had asserted itself.  “And then you can send it to the collector by post.  You had better write down your name and address to give him.  I’ll guarantee to the collector that it will be all right.”

The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks.  Slowly and laboriously she wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket was folded.  All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold.  The Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused.

TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at once.

“Ah!” said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, “that’s my notion of a dear Old Lady.”

“Everything about her was so characteristic,” answered the Curate, admiringly.

Neither the Curate nor the Stockbroker had the advantage of hearing what the dear Old Lady said to Tom that afternoon.