Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that overshadowed me? Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.
“I don’t like Piccadilly, Henrietta.”
“But I do,” said she. “It’s dark now, and the long rows of lamps in Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I will go to Piccadilly!”
Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers of people in the streets. It was a brisk night, but not too cold, and not damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights—FOR THE PURPOSE.
As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor Place, Henrietta murmured:
“I wish I was a Queen!”
“Why so, Henrietta?”
“I would make you Something,” said she, and crossed her two hands on my arm, and turned away her head.
Judging from this that the softer sentiments alluded to above had begun to flow, I adapted my conduct to that belief. Thus happily we passed on into the detested thoroughfare of Piccadilly. On the right of that thoroughfare is a row of trees, the railing of the Green Park, and a fine broad eligible piece of pavement.
“Oh my!” cried Henrietta presently. “There’s been an accident!”