"But," said Leavesley, "a four-wheeler—why not a hansom?"
"No, no," said Miss Lambert, getting into the vehicle, "I hate hansoms, I was thrown out of one once. Besides, this is more respectable. Do get in quick, and tell the man to drive fast; I want to get the agony over."
"Corner of Southampton Row," cried Leavesley to the driver. He got in, Verneede shut the door and stood on the pavement, bowing and smiling in an antiquated way as they drove off.
It was a four-wheeler with pretensions in the form of maroon velveteen cushions and rubber tyres, a would-be imitation brougham, but the old growler blood came out in its voice, every window rattled. Driving in it, one could hear oneself speak, but conversation with a companion to be intelligible had to be conducted in a mild shout.
"I don't in the least know what I'm going to say to him," cried Miss Lambert, leaning forward towards her companion—he was seated opposite to her on the front seat. "I'm so nervous, I can't think."
"Don't go to him."
"I must, now we've taken the cab."
"Let's go somewhere else."
"Where?"
"Anywhere—Madame Tussaud's."