Ivor stepped out, with reluctance, for the drive had been short, too short; and, though he had no “ulterior motive,” he would have liked to speak to her a while longer. But, even as he stepped out on to the curb, he murmured softly: “Well, I’m damned!” For he saw that they were in Hertford Street—and just at that part of Hertford Street which is at the head of Down Street! and there, a hundred yards or so down the slope of it, was the Tube station!
The chinchilla coat laughed, a slight wave of a laugh it was, from the recess of the taxi.
“I live here,” she said. “But I told him to drive round by Hamilton Place....”
“I thought it would be fun to see your puzzled face,” she said. “I’ve never had much fun.”
Her sudden plaint from the darkness made him, standing by the door, frightfully shy; and he said nothing, awkwardly.
He stood aside while she stepped out. And, in the lamplight, he saw her face for the first time, as she brushed by him: a young and beautiful profile—curiously sedate, too, it seemed!—passing by his eyes.
“She’s a person,” he couldn’t help thinking.
He remained by the throbbing taxi; he did not follow her to the door of the house, lest she should think he wanted to follow the occasion indoors. And he did want to, very much; but he could make no move lest she should be made uncomfortable at a thought of his insistence.
He watched the tall figure—she was very tall, taller than Virginia—fit a latchkey in the door; he watched her open the door; and he saw her turn her head to him. He took off his hat quickly.
“Good-bye, Chinchilla,” he said.