"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into
my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."

With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed
for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"

She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her
that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her
emotions was all that she had counted upon.

"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can
settle."

The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room
felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of
drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and
fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the
dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since
dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins
and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.

"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last.

Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.

"How do you propose to silence him?"

"The driver?"