I groaned dismally, and registered a vow to spend all my substance in future on the most elegant and respectable broughams procurable for money, with a gray-haired driver pledged to temperance, and a stalwart footman armed with a lantern, pistol, directory, and map of London.
All of a sudden the cab stopped; the driver, not being a fixture, descended, and coming to the window, said, civilly,—
"The fog is so thick, mum, I'm not quite sure if I'm right, but this is Colville Square."
"Don't know any such place. Colville Gardens is what we want. There's a church at the end, and trees in the middle, and "—
"No use, mum, describin' it, for I can't see a thing. But the Gardens can't be far off, so I'll try again."
"We never shall find it, so we had better ask the man to take us at once to some station, work-house, or refuge till morning," remarked M, in such a tone of sleepy resignation that I shook her on the spot.
Another jaunt up and down, fog getting thicker, night later, one woman sleepier and the other crosser every minute, but still no haven hove in sight. Presently the cab stopped with a decided bump against the curb-stone, and the driver reappeared, saying, with respectful firmness,—
"My horse is beat out, and it's past my time for turning in, so if this ain't the place I shall have to give it up, mum."
"It is not the place," I answered, getting out with the calmness of despair.
"There's a light in that house and a woman looking out. Go and ask her where we are," suggested M, waking from her doze.