Outside the fumes of the coffee-shop were blown away by soft autumnal breezes.
"We'll dash it in a taxi. Look, there's a salmon-colored one. What luck! We must have that. They're rather rare. Taxi! Taxi!"
The driver of the favored hue pulled up beside the pavement.
"Four-twenty-two Grosvenor Road, Westminster."
"I wonder," said Maurice, glancing round at Jenny and taking her slim gloved hand in his. "I wonder whether taxis will ever be as romantic as hansoms. They aren't yet somehow. All the same, there's a tremendous thrill in tearing through this glorious September weather. Oh, London," he shouted, bouncing in excitement up and down on the springy cushions, "London, you're wonderful."
Jenny shook his hand as a nurse reproves a child.
"Keep still," she commanded. "The man'll think you're potty."
"But I am potty. You're potty. The world's potty, and we're in love. My sweet and lovely Jenny, I'm in love with you.
| "There was a young lady called Jenny, |
| Whose eyes, some men said, were quite squiny." |
"Oh, Maurice, you are awful," she protested.