"Oh, I'm not goin' to argue with you," said the driver. "I'm goin' home."
And he began to turn his horse's head. Mr. Jope sprang out upon the roadway. The driver, with sudden and unexpected agility, dropped off—on the other side.
"Look here, it's grindin' the faces of the poor!" he pleaded, breathing hard.
"It will be," assented Mr. Jope grimly.
"I been up all night: at a ball."
"If it comes to that, so've I: at Symonds's."
"Mine was at Admiralty House," said the driver. "I wasn' dancin'."
"What about the horse?"
"The horse? the ho—Oh, I take your meanin'! The horse is all right: he's a fresh one. Poor I may be," he announced inconsecutively, "but I wouldn' live the life of one of them there women of fashion, not for a million of money." He ruminated for a moment. "Did I say a million?"
"You did."