"They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially when the windows are up. One can't speak."
The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out of the hollow the dying man's eyes were fixed on the circle of lights that shone across the Green Park. They looked like a distant village, and Esther wondered if William was thinking of Shoreham—she had seen Shoreham look like that sometimes—or if he was thinking that he was looking on London for the last time. Was he saying to himself, "I shall never, never see Piccadilly again"? They passed St. James's Street. The Circus, with its mob of prostitutes, came into view; the "Criterion" bar, with its loafers standing outside. William leaned a little forward, and Esther was sure he was thinking that he would never go into that bar again. The cab turned to the left, and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass down Old Compton Street, opposite their old house. It happened that it did, and Esther and William wondered who were the new people who were selling beer and whisky in the bar? All the while boys were crying, "Win-ner, all the win-ner!"
"The —— was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all over for this year."
Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece of asphalte, and he said—
"Is Jack waiting for us?"
"Yes, he came home yesterday."
The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got out of the cab he was taken with a fit of coughing, and had to cling to the railings. She had to pay the cab, and it took some time to find the money. Would no one open the door? She was surprised to see him make his way up the steps to the bell, and having got her change, she followed him into the house.
"I can manage. Go on first; I'll follow."
And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he slowly dragged himself up to the first landing. A door opened and Jack stood on the threshold of the lighted room.
"Is that you, mother?"