Through the windows of the speeding cab an orderly procession of street lamps, marching past, threw each its fugitive and pallid glimmer. Periods of modified darkness intervened, when the face of the girl in her corner seemed a vision subtle and wraithlike. But ever the recurrent lights revealed her sweetly incarnate if deep in enervation of crushing weariness.
Once she stirred and sighed profoundly; and Lanyard, bending toward her, asked if he could be in any way of service.
She replied in an undertone scarcely better than a whisper: "Thank you, I am quite comfortable…. Please—what time is it?"
The cab was passing Sixtieth Street. Lanyard caught a fleeting glimpse of a street clock with a dial like a little golden moon.
"It's just four."
"Thank you…."
"Very tired?"
"Very…."
He had the maddest notion that her head inclined to droop toward his shoulder. Perhaps the motion of the cab…. If so, she recovered easily.
"Can I do anything?"