"Tommy," said Varney, "I'm bound for the hotel on business, but I'm not going to pull you away from all the fun--" "Wut, that? That ain't no fun, sir." "Don't you suppose I know fun when I meet it in the road, you little rascal? You stay here till it's all over and then I want you to come down to the yacht, and we'll have some dinner. Then I'll put you up for the night and to-morrow morning we'll go to New York together, eh? How's that?" But Tommy said: "Nawser. We can't go yet. Somebody sent me to bring you. We got a car'dge here--" "A carriage?" "A victori'," emphasized Tommy. "A victoria! All this on three bucks, Tommy! Well, well! You are the spender, though." "Here's _our_ victori'!" said Tommy proudly. They halted abruptly before an open carriage ... a victoria, indeed: a handsome double victoria, all polished dark wood and blue upholstery and shining nickeled harness, and sleek bay horses. This he saw in the first flash, wondering by what miracle Tommy Orrick had secured control of so glorious an equipage. And then ... there was the pretty edge of a furbelowed skirt upon the carriage-floor ... a dainty patent-leather toe upon the foot-rest ... an unrolling panorama of white-gloved hands, pale buff dress, great plumed hat, eyes not seen yet known to be blue to match the upholstery ... an exquisite lady sitting in the victoria. And this lady had recognized his presence, first with a faint frightened "Oh!" and then with a movement of those great hat-plumes which was beyond all doubt or cavil a bow ... a bow of proper and civil greeting. For him that meeting was stunning in its entire unexpectedness. The landscape went off in protest, exploded in pyrotechnic marvels; the earth spun and cavorted; the solar system was disrupted and planets ran amuck with din unbelievable. But he was used to these cataclysms now, and out of the roar of breakage he heard a voice much like his own saying pleasantly: "Tommy refers to this calmly as _his_ carriage, Miss Carstairs. See what a week of New York has done for him. Where did he disappear to--did you notice? A great day it has been"--in the rising inflection of farewell--"hasn't it?" Came out of space in answer, like a fluttering bird from nowhere, a voice that had once seemed music in his ears: "I sent him ... to look for you. They said that you were ... ill. Perhaps you would let us drive you to the river?" "And make you miss the speech?" continued this easy and agreeable young man, whom Laurence Varney, a great distance off, stood dumbly and watched from the swirling void with a certain remote admiration. "Of course not. I was never better in my life and the walk will be pleasant on so nice an afternoon. But thank you very much." Again his tone held the faint inflection of finality, of leave-taking. Came again the voice like tossed chimes out of space: "Then ... won't you stay and hear the end? It would please Mr. Hare. From this carriage ... you can see and hear everything very well."