"Once a taxicab driver, always a taxicab driver," Sarah propounded. "Did
you know that that was my profession, Mr. Wingate? If you do need
anything in the shape of a comfortable conveyance while you are in town,
will you remember me? I'll send you a card, if you like."

"Don't, for heaven's sake, listen to that young woman," Kendrick begged.

"Her cab's on its last legs," the Honourable Jimmy warned him, "three
cylinders missing, and the fourth makes a noise like popcorn when you
come to a gradient."

"It isn't as though she could drive," Maurice White put in. "There isn't
an insurance company in London will take her on as a risk."

Sarah glanced from one to the other in well-assumed viciousness.

"Don't I hate you all!" she exclaimed bitterly. "I can understand Jimmy,
because he likes me to drive him all the time, but you others, who aren't
regular clients at all, why you should butt in and try to spoil my
chances, I can't think. Mr. Wingate is just my conception of the ideal
fare--generous, affable, and with trans-Atlantic notions about tips. I
shall send you my card, all the same, Mr. Wingate."

"And I hope," Josephine said, "that Mr. Wingate will not take the
slightest notice of all the rubbish these unkind people have been saying.
Miss Baldwin drives me continually and has given me every satisfaction."

"'Every satisfaction' I love," Sarah declared. "I shall have that
framed."