Anna Paluda bent down and took up her jewel case and handbag.
"Well, Mr. Sydney—I'm like you—uncertain. I have an aunt—but she may be away. Suppose we communicate in the agony column of the Morning Post—that will be romantic, won't it?" with a little smile.
"Er—yes—just the very thing. E.S. to A.P.—well, good-bye again. I'll get you a cab."
Under the glass-covered yard Edward handed Anna into a taxi which had just driven up and deposited a passenger. He tried to catch the address the woman whispered to the driver, but she spoke very low and he was unsuccessful.
He stood on the curb with his hat in his hand, smiling his farewells until the cab had passed through the gates. Then he gave a little sigh and made his way in the direction of the Park.
"So that is all," he murmured sadly to himself. "God's in His heaven, Galva's on her throne, all's right with the world—and Edward Povey's little flutter is over."
He turned slowly through the gates, and stood looking at the façade of Buckingham Palace. And as he gazed at the rows of windows and at the railed courtyard, with the sentries, his thoughts turned to another palace, a palace under a blue sky and which overlooked a glittering jewel city in the sun-kissed waters of a southern sea.
"God bless my little Queen," he said, and turned and walked to where the lights of Piccadilly were shining in the sky.
He wandered aimlessly along among the evening throng of pleasure seekers. He felt lost, he seemed to have forgotten that London existed. He turned into the Monico and drank a whisky and soda, and as he came out he saw a green 'bus drawing up at the curb outside the Pavilion music hall. The conductor was shouting—"Russell Square, King's Cross."
"Do you pass Abbot's Hotel?" Edward asked.