She was not to be seen, heard, or felt. As if I were driving through the night absolutely by myself. It was not until we reached the woods and the light from the lanterns shone on the wet birch trees so that a gleam of light was reflected back into the carriage that I saw her cowering in the corner as though she were trying to press through the side and throw herself out.
Good Heavens! Such a poor little thing! Bereft of all that made up her old existence and beholding in her new world nothing but an oldish fellow who had just been dead drunk.
The devil! How ashamed of myself I felt.
"Iolanthe."
But, of course, I had to say something.
Not a sound.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes."
"Won't you give me your hand?"
"Yes."