A little crowd of people, like flies upon fallen fruit, clung about
the steps of the 'bus as it moved towards its resting-place. She
joined in with them, jostled along the pavement by their efforts to
secure an advantageous position by the steps. When finally it did
come to a standstill and she had reached the conductor's platform,
the announcement, "Outside only," met her attempt to force a passage
within.

It was still raining--persistent mist of rain that steals a way
through any clothing. Should she wait? She had no umbrella. But she
had known what it was to wait on such occasions before. The next 'bus
would probably be full up inside, and the next, and the next. Twenty
minutes might well be wasted before she could start on her way home,
and you have little energy left within you to care about a wetting,
when from nine o'clock in the morning until six, when it is dark,
you have been beating the keys of a typewriter. Your mind demands
but little then, so long as you can secure a peaceful oblivion.

So, in the face of others who turned back, she mounted the stairway
on to the roof of the 'bus. There she was alone, and, pulling the
tarpaulin covering around her, she seated herself on the little bench
farthest from the driver. The little bell tinkled twice,
viciously--all drivers and conductors are made vicious by a steady
rain--and they moved out into the swim of the traffic, as a steamer
puts out from its pier.

On bright evenings it was the most enjoyable part of the journey home,
this ride from Piccadilly Circus to Hammersmith. From there onwards
in the tram to Kew Bridge, it became uninteresting. The shops were
not so bright; the people not so well dressed. It always gave her