“Certainly,” said Ivor, and instantly left her, to search for it. “Autocrat,” he thought. “None of your meek stuff about her.” ...
Piccadilly again. There were taxis on the rank a hundred yards or so up on the sulky side—nice and polite taxis now that the war was over.
“In Down Street,” he told the first driver, “there’s a Tube station and a chinchilla coat. Stop by them.”
The driver grunted, and drove. And, as he slowed down by the Tube, the chinchilla coat stepped out from the cavernous place and was visible as a tall woman in a chinchilla coat, no more; for over her head was thrown a kind of motoring veil which obscured what might be golden hair and suggested what might be a young and lovely face. “But of course,” Ivor thought, “she’s lovely. A plain woman wouldn’t have the cheek.”
He jumped off the footboard, and opened the door for her.
“You may as well see me to my door now,” came voice of chinchilla softly.
Suddenly, he couldn’t tell why, the desire for laughter left him.
“Yes,” he only said.
She made a gesture for him to get into the cab first.