Elizabeth. Leading to Holloway?
Phoebe. Well, most roads lead there.
Elizabeth. And end there—so far as I can see.
Phoebe. You’re too impatient.
Elizabeth. It’s what our friends have been telling us—for the last fifty years.
Phoebe. Look here, if it was only the usual sort of thing mamma wouldn’t want it kept secret. I’m inclined to think it’s a new departure altogether.
(The door opens. There enters Janet Blake, followed by Hake, who proceeds with his work. Janet Blake is a slight, fragile-looking creature, her great dark eyes—the eyes of a fanatic—emphasise the pallor of her childish face. She is shabbily dressed; a plain, uninteresting girl until she smiles, and then her face becomes quite beautiful. Phoebe darts to meet her.) Good girl. Was afraid—I say, you’re wet through.
Janet. It was only a shower. The ’buses were all full. I had to ride outside.
Phoebe. Silly kid, why didn’t you take a cab?
Janet. I’ve been reckoning it up. I’ve been half over London chasing Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. Cabs would have come, at the very least, to twelve-and-six.