"You won't need a muffler?" she suggested.
Now was the moment to play the hardy Norseman. "Oh, no!" he laughed.
This concern for his welfare, coming from such a royal creature, was, however, immensely agreeable.
She stood out on the steps; he extinguished the candle, and then joined her and banged the door. They started. Several hundred yards of winding pitch-dark drive had to be traversed.
"Will you kindly give me your arm?" she said.
She said it so primly, so correctly, and with such detachment, that they might have been in church, and she saying: "Will you kindly let me look over your Prayer Book?"
When they arrived at the gas-lit Oldcastle-road he wanted to withdraw his arm, but he did not know how to begin withdrawing it. Hence he was obliged to leave it where it was.
And as they were approaching the front gate of the residence of Mr. Buchanan, the Scotch editor of the Signal, a perfect string of people emerged from that front gate. Mrs. Buchanan had been giving a whist drive. There were sundry Swetnams among the string. And the whole string was merry and talkative. It was a fine night. The leading pearls of the string bore down on the middle-aged pair, and peered, and passed.
"Good-night, Mrs. Prockter. Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw."
Then another couple did the same. "Good-night, Mrs. Prockter. Good-night, Mr. Ollerenshaw."