We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi’s hand.
“We’re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes to-night or to-morrow?”
“To-morrow’ll do,” she said.
A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler alighted, refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering our luggage, inquired whether we wanted a cab.
“Where to?” he asked.
I turned to Vi. “Where’ll we stay?”
She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went forward to engage the cabby.
“Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,” she whispered. “Everything has been so—so hurried. You understand, dearest, don’t you?”
I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having told the man to drive to the Cecil, I was about to enter. She checked me. “We shall be able to get on all right.” Then, in the darkness of the cab, her arms went passionately about my neck, and, all pretense abandoned, I felt her warm lips pressed against my mouth.
As the door banged Dorrie roused. Seeing me standing on the platform, she stretched her arms out of the window, crying, “Oh, I fought you was toming wiv’ us, Dante.”