"No—motor smash—changed plans—Father's coming."
"Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "What in—the name of all that's wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?"
Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself.
"Oh, Henry dear!—here's a lovely surprise—but let me introduce—but I think you know Miss Schlegel."
"Oh, yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "But how's yourself, Ruth?"
"Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily.
"So are we and so was our car, which ran A-1 as far as Ripon, but there a wretched horse and cart which a fool of a driver—"
"Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day."
"I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the policeman himself admits—"
"Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course."
"—But as we've insured against third party risks, it won't so much matter—"
"—Cart and car being practically at right angles—"
The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret was left alone. No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out of King's Cross between her husband and her daughter, listening to both of them.
CHAPTER XI
The funeral was over. The carriages rolled away through the soft mud, and only the poor remained. They approached to the newly-dug shaft and looked their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the spadefuls of clay. It was their moment. Most of them were women from the dead woman's district, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr. Wilcox's orders.
