In a Fog.
(A Reminiscence of the Past Month.)
Scene—Main thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Time 8 P.M. Nothing visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she is spoke on such occasions.
Mrs. Flusters (who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road). We shall be dreadfully late, I know we shall! I'm sure Peacock could go faster than this if he liked—he always loses his head when there's much traffic. Do tell him to make haste!
Mr. F. Better let him alone—he knows what he's doing.
Mrs. F. I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't dawdle like this. If you won't speak to him, I must. (Lets down the glass and puts out her head.) Peacock!
A Blurred Shadow on the Box. Yes, M'm.
Mrs. F. What are we stopping for like this?
The Shadow. Fog very thick just 'ere, M'm. Can't see what's in front of us, M'm.
Mrs. F. It's just as safe to keep moving as to stand still—go on at once.