“I could carry you for miles, now that we are safely out of the wreck,” he said. “Here is a curbstone, and—yes, by good luck, the steps of a house. Now, shall we ring up the people and ask them to shelter you while I just lend a hand with the cab?”
“No, no, it is so late, I will wait here. Take care you don’t get hurt.”
He disappeared into the fog, and she understood him well enough to know that he would keenly enjoy the difficulty of getting matters straight again.
“I think accidents agree with you,” she said laughingly, when by and by he came back to her, seeming unusually cheerful.
“I can’t help laughing now to think of the ridiculous way in which both cabs went down and both horses stood up,” he said. “It is wonderful that more damage was not done. We all seem to have escaped with bruises, and nothing is broken except the shafts.”
“Let us walk home now,” said Cecil “Does any one know whereabout we are?”
“The driver says it is Battersea Bridge Road, some way from Rowan Tree House, you see, but, if you would not be too tired, it would certainly be better not to stay for another cab.”
So they set off, and, with much difficulty, at length groped their way to Brixton, not getting home till long after midnight. At the door Frithiof said good-by, and for the first time since the accident Cecil remembered his trouble; in talking of many things she had lost sight of it, but now it came back to her with a swift pang, all the harder to bear because of the happiness of the last half-hour.
“You must not go back without resting and having something to eat,” she said pleadingly.
“You are very kind,” he replied, “but I can not come in.”