“What on earth is it?” Guy asked.
“Come on, don’t hang about in this hell of a house. Come on, Guy.”
Michael had flung the door back to slam into Miss Harper’s face, and, seizing Guy by the wrist, he dragged him up the steps, and had started to run down the road, when Guy shouted:
“Michael, the taxi! The taxi’s waiting with our bags.”
“Oh, very well, in a taxi then, a taxi if you like,” Michael chattered, and he plunged into it.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Cheyne Walk. But drive quickly. Don’t hang about up and down this road.”
The driver looked round with an expression of injured dignity, shook his head in exclamation, and drove off.
“What on earth has happened?” Guy asked. “And why on earth are you holding a top-hat?”
Michael burst into laughter.