“There is,” she agreed. “You’ve just set fire to it with that match.”
“I’m so nervous,” said Arthur. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Phew! what a stink of burnt hair. Do let’s get out.”
He stamped on the smoldering mat.
“Shut up,” Sylvia commanded. “I’m going to try and have a sleep. Wake me up if the horse tries to walk into a shop or anything.”
But this was more than Arthur could stand, and he shook her in desperation. “You sha’n’t go to sleep. You don’t seem to mind what happens to us.”
“Not a bit,” Sylvia agreed. Then suddenly she sang at the top of her voice, “for I’m off with the raggle-taggle gipsies—oh!”
The horse at once trotted forward, and Arthur was in despair.
“Oh, damn!” he moaned. “Now you’ve started that horrible brute off again. Whatever made me come away with you?”
“You can go home whenever you like,” said Sylvia, coldly.
“What’s the good of telling me that when we’re tearing along in a cab without a driver?” Arthur bewailed.