Jehu, like the equipage itself, jobbed for the occasion, was the mirror of true courtliness. He had an uncle in the Royal stables, therefore he knew the deference due to the august Miss Sanderson. In promoting her descent from the chariot he did not actually take off his hat, but he stood with it off in spirit; a fact sufficiently clear to the three youthful onlookers, one of whom remarked in a voice of awe, "It's the mayoress."
Eliza, quaking over her best tea service on its elegant tray, knew without so much as a glance through the window that Aunt Annie had come. But she waited for the knock. And then apronless, in her best dress, with never a hair out of place, she opened the door with a certain slow stateliness. Before her mésalliance she had had great prospects as lady's maid.
"Good morning, dear Eliza."
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, but the distinguished visitor undoubtedly said, "Good morning, dear Eliza." Moreover, she offered a large and rigid cheek and Eliza pecked at it rather nervously.
The door of Number Five closed upon Jehu, upon his wonderful and fearful machine, and also upon the general public.
"And how is Joseph?"
"Nicely, thank you, Aunt Annie. I hope you are quite well."
"As well as my rheumatism will permit."
"Won't you take off your things?"
"Thank you, no, my dear."
Aunt Annie would rather have died than take off her things in that house. In her heart she had never been able to forgive Eliza her marriage. Joseph Kelly was
