“Goot!” cried the Baron, “a zouzand zanks!”
“I myself,” added Mr Bunker, with a profound bow to the lady, “shall say good night now. The best of luck, Baron!”
In a few minutes a hansom drove up, and the Baron, springing in beside his charge, told the man to drive to 602 Eaton Square.
“Not too qvickly!” he added, in a stage aside.
They reached Trafalgar Square, matters inside going harmoniously as a marriage bell,—almost, in fact, too much suggesting that simile.
“Why are we going down Whitehall?” the lady exclaimed, suddenly.
“I know not,” replied the Baron, placidly.
“Ask him where he is going!” she said.
The Baron, as in duty bound, asked, and the reassuring reply, “All right, sir,” came back through the hole in the roof.
“I seem to know that man’s voice,” the lady said. “He must have driven me before.”