[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!"