He weakened. That coat was too jolly much for him. It was for me,
too. As I ran down the stairs, its influence so worked on me that
I didn't know just which Vanderbilt I was.

I got out on the sidewalk all right, and was just about to take a
car when the turnstile swung round, and there was that same man
with the cap. His face was a funny mixture of doubt and
determination. But it meant the Correction for me.

"Nance Olden, it's over," I said to myself.

But it wasn't. For it was then that I caught sight of the
carriage. It was a fat, low, comfortable, elegant, sober
carriage, wide and well-kept, with rubber-tired wheels. And the
two heavy horses were fat and elegant and sober, too, and wide
and well-kept. I didn't know it was the Bishop's then--I didn't
care whose it was. It was empty, and it was mine. I'd rather go
to the Correction--being too young to get to the place you're
bound for, Tom Dorgan--in it than in the patrol wagon. At any
rate, it was all the chance I had.

I slipped in, closing the door sharply behind me. The man on the
box--he was wide and well-kept, too--was tired waiting, I suppose,
for he continued to doze gently, his high coachman's collar
up over his ears. I cursed that collar, which had prevented
his hearing the door close, for then he might have driven off.

But it was great inside: soft and warm, the cushions of dark
plum, the seat wide and roomy, a church paper, some notes for the
Bishop's next sermon and a copy of Quo Vadis. I just snuggled