Miss Sinquier tingled.
A thing like that was enough to give one wings for a week.
She set off briskly, already largely braced.
Before meeting Mrs. Bromley on the morrow much would have to be done.
There was the difficulty of lodgement to consider.
Whenever she had been in the metropolis before she had stayed at
_Millars_ in Eric Street, overlooking Percy Place; because Mr. Millar
had formerly been employed at the Deanery, and had, moreover, married
their cook....
But before going anywhere she must acquire a trunk.
Even Church dignitaries had been known to be refused accommodation on
arriving at a strange hotel with nothing but themselves.
She threw a glance upwards towards a clock.
It was early yet!
All the wonderful day stretched before her, and in the evening she would
take a ticket perhaps for some light vaudeville or new revue.
She studied the pleasure announcements on the motor-buses as they swayed
along.
Stella Starcross—The Lady from the Sea—This evening, Betty Buttermilk
and Co.—Rose Tournesol—Mr. and Mrs. Mary’s Season: The Carmelite—The
Shop Boy—Clemenza di Tito. To-night!
Miss Sinquier blinked.
Meanwhile the family teapot was becoming a bore.
Until the shops should open up it might be well to take a taxi and rest
in the Park for an hour.
The weather was clearing fast; the day showed signs of heat.
She hailed a passing cab.
“Hyde Park,” she murmured, climbing slowly in.
She thrilled.
Upon the floor and over the cushions of the cab was sprinkled fresh
confetti—turquoise, pink and violet, gold and green.
She took up some.
As a mascot, she reflected, it would be equivalent to a cinqfoil of
clover, or a tuft of edelweiss, or a twist of hangman’s rope.
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