“You might as well give in to my aunt. She is a very determined woman, but she will do a good part by you with the young ladies. I need not say I shall be most happy to introduce you to any one of my acquaintances you may wish to know. Come, Miss Brandon.” He gave Elizabeth his arm and escorted her, with Pelham and Darrell following, across the street to where Mrs. Luttrell’s big coach, with the lamps flowing out in the darkness, had its place in the line of carriages. Elizabeth had felt from the beginning the strange influence of the unknown man in the shadow, whose eyes had been fixed upon her from the moment of their arrival. She had glanced back half a dozen times at his tall and imposing figure and had been acutely conscious of his keen observation. She felt it still as she walked away from him. Elizabeth felt as if in a dream. She was distressed and even superstitious about the loss of her little ornament. It not only distressed her, but had given her a presentiment of evil, and she was vaguely conscious of some malign influence near her and likewise of the admiration and incipient tenderness which Darrell and Pelham felt towards her, of her father’s deep and protecting love, of being the object of solicitude to Mrs. Luttrell and Baskerville. She was at that moment surrounded by admiration and love and care, but she was haunted by a sudden sense of evil close to her. She stepped silently into the carriage, and took her seat by Mrs. Luttrell’s side. General Brandon then presented the two young British officers as if they were his long–lost brothers. Mrs. Luttrell received them, not as if they were her long–lost brothers, but like a perfect woman of the world, born to command, and who, seeing what she wanted, took her own, wherever she found it, as Molière says. And now she said to them: “Please get into the carriage. It holds four very comfortably. I do not care for these miniature broughams and coupés, meant to hold a woman and a poodle. I like a good big carriage, the sort our great–grandfathers had when everybody had fourteen children and generally took seven with them when they went visiting. My carriage holds four, and I could pack six away in it if I chose. I can take you in, General Brandon,” she said. “A thousand thanks, my dear Mrs. Luttrell,” replied General Brandon, who did not have at that moment the price of a ticket either at home or in his pocket. “I have no intention of going to the ball since you are so kind as to chaperon my child. Good night.” “Good night.” Baskerville then shut the door. “You needn’t ask me to get in. I shall walk down. It is only a step anyhow, but I know your propensities for packing your carriage as full as an omnibus, and I don’t believe in encouraging you in your vices.” “The way my nephew talks to me is perfectly shocking,” said Mrs. Luttrell, resignedly, to her new–found guests; “but he is the best and dearest fellow in the world.”