“One can never tell.”
“I should have thought one could,” said Mrs. Viveash. Children—that would be the most desperate experiment of all. The most desperate, and perhaps the only one having any chance of being successful. History recorded cases.... On the other hand, it recorded other cases that proved the opposite. She had often thought of this experiment. There were so many obvious reasons for not making it. But some day, perhaps—she always put it off, like that.
The cab had turned off the main road into quieter and darker streets.
“Where are we now?” asked Mrs. Viveash.
“Penetrating into Maida Vale. We shall soon be there. Poor old Shearwater!” He laughed. Other people in love were always absurd.
“Shall we find him in, I wonder?” It would be fun to see Shearwater again. She liked to hear him talking, learnedly, and like a child. But when the child is six feet high and three feet wide and two feet thick, when it tries to plunge head first into your life—then, really, no.... “But what did you want with me?” he had asked. “Just to look at you,” she answered. Just to look; that was all. Music hall, not boudoir.
“Here we are.” Gumbril got out and rang the second floor bell.
The door was opened by an impertinent-looking little maid.
“Mr. Shearwater’s at the lavatory,” she said, in answer to Gumbril’s question.
“Laboratory?” he suggested.