"Friend," said I, "your plain but honest face belies your words. You don't want to see the opera any more than I do, and now you're jealous because to-morrow I shall sit down to dinner comfortably while you are trying to remember which of the sandwiches have mustard, and praying that the lights won't go up till your mouth's empty."
To the consternation of the assistants in the library, Berry covered his face with his hands.
"He thinks it decent to revile me," he said weakly. "Where is my wife, my helpmeet?"
But Daphne had already retired. As I left the shop, an American lady approached Berry and told him the way to the English chemist.
At five the next day it began to rain. I was in Maximilian Street at the time, admiring the proportions of the thoroughfare and ready for anything. The rain suggested to me that I should take a taxi to the Rumpelmayer's of Munich. A closed one was crawling by the kerb opposite to me, on the far side of the road. I put up my stick, and it slowed down. I crossed to it, spoke to the driver, who scowled at me, seemingly because I approached him from the road and not from the pavement—Munich is very particular—and got in. As I sat back in the dark corner, the opposite door opened. The light of the offside lamps showed me two big, brown eyes, a dear, puzzled face, half wondering, half wanting to laugh, and a row of white teeth catching a red upper lip that trembled in a smile. The next moment their owner stepped quickly in, the driver let in his clutch with a jerk, and my unwitting companion was projected heavily into the corner—not mine—she had been about to occupy.
She swore gently.
"That's right," said I.
She jumped properly.
"Good Heavens!"
"I'm so sorry, but I'm all right," said I, "I assure you. Young man of gentlemanly appearance. Harrow and Oxford, terms moderate, bathroom and domestic offices, possession early in June—"