But Madame Beattie was bowing graciously to right and left. Once she rose for an instant and addressed a curt sentence to the crowd, and in answer they cheered, a full-mouthed chorus of one word in different tongues.
"What are they yelling?" Jeffrey asked.
"It's for you," Madame Beattie said composedly. "They're cheering you."
"Me? How do you know? That's not my name."
"No. It's The Prisoner. They're calling you The Prisoner."
They were at the gate now, and turned into the road and, with a free course before him, the man put on speed and they were away. Jeffrey bent forward to him, but Madame Beattie pulled him back.
"What are you doing?" she inquired. "We're going home."
"This is Moore's car," Jeffrey reminded her.
"No, it isn't. It's the proletariat's car." She rolled the r surprisingly. "Do you suppose he comes out here to corrupt those poor devils without making them pay for being corrupted? Jeffrey, take off your coat."
"What for?" He had resigned himself to his position. It was a fit part of the whole eccentric pastime, and after all it was only Weedie's car.