“Perhaps. Look, Ces, this is the Brompton Road.”
He looked eagerly out at the lighted thoroughfare. “Isn’t it noisy, Mummie?”
“I suppose it is. I don’t know. One gets used to it pretty quickly. But Uncle Alfred lives in a smaller street than this, and it’ll be quieter there.”
The cab turned into a side street, then entered a narrower road again, and finally drew up before a corner house at the furthest end of the street.
“Goodness! Here we are!” said Rose. She fumbled excitedly for her purse. “Get out, Ces. No, wait—let me get out first, and I’ll help you. Hold the umbrella, like a good boy.”
“It’s raining, Mummie.”
“Never mind, we’ll be indoors in a minute. I’ll ring the area bell, Cabby, and someone’ll give you a hand with the trunk.”
Rose pulled vigorously at the bell handle on the iron railings that surmounted the area, but before the jangling reverberations had ceased, a man had hurried out on to the pavement, now glistening with wet.
“Mrs. Aviolet?”
“Hullo—why, it’s never Artie Millar! How are you?”