"My ticket's gone! I was putting that hair-pin right, and the ticket
slipped out of my fingers, and dropped down the back of my neck
between my clothes and--and myself. What _shall_ I do when that
gentleman comes for the tickets?"

The Curate blushed violently. In his boyhood's days he had put
halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until
they percolated out in the region of his boots. He had only just
checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and
jump.

The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her. He was a
season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector. He would explain it to
the man. "You'll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you--I
mean, later on." The British love of euphemism had asserted itself.
"And then you can send it to the collector by post. You had better
write down your name and address to give him. I'll guarantee to the
collector that it will be all right."

The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks. Slowly and laboriously she
wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket
was folded. All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold. The
Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused.

TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at
once.

"Ah!" said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, "that's
my notion of a dear Old Lady."