"W'ere to?" asked the other, hanging back slightly.
"Oh, we'll go round the town—round and round. Come on." Then to Foulkes, "Get a taxi, quick!"
Foulkes vanished towards the door.
Then Simon, falling in with the round-the-town idea, arm-in-arm, the pair threaded their way between the tables, the cynosure of all eyes, Simon exhibiting dispositions to stop and chat with seated and absolute strangers, Bobby perspiring and blushing. All the lectures on fast living he had ever endured were nothing to this; the shame of folly, for the first time in his life, appeared definitely before him, and the relief of the street and the waiting taxi beyond words.
They bundled Simon in.
"No. 12, King Charles Street, Westminster," said Bobby to the driver.
Uncle Simon's head and bust appeared at the door of the vehicle, the address given by Bobby seeming to have paralysed the round-the-town idea in his mind.
"Ch'ing Cross Hotel," said he. "Wach you mean givin' wrong address? I'm staying Ch'ing Cross Hotel."
"Well, let's go to Charles Street first," agreed Bobby.