The girl stepped into the car and slid to the driver’s seat.
As her companion followed—
“That’s all to-night, Mason,” she cried to the chauffeur without.
“Very good, madam.”
A moment later the car was stealing out of St. James’s. . . .
Presently it swung westward at an increased speed.
The turmoil of the day was over, and the ways were empty and silent under the high stars. Once in a while another car sang by or a waggon lumbered, but for the most part man and his works had yielded possession to Fantasy, who had done all things well. The stage of London Town was set for a masque. Substance was gone, and Shadow was up in his seat: the streets had become dim, monstrous lanes that led to Mystery, paved with the sheen of silver, hung with a sable arras behind which Echo hid: gardens were swollen to parks, and parks to kingdoms: Harlequin was abroad.
“How can I call him off?” said Rosemary suddenly. “Virginia’s got my whistle.”
Derry regarded the end of his cigarette.
“I’ll speak to Virginia,” he said, “if you’ll tell me what to say.”