Ivor, with his hand on the door-handle of the taxi, suddenly found it impossible to direct the man to his flat. He suddenly found he couldn’t bear the loneliness of his flat. And he quite forgot about Magdalen’s doctor.
“Drive,” he told the man, “to Mr. Trevor’s flat in Savile Row. It’s a charming flat, on the third floor....”
He’s certain not to know it, Ivor thought, and in that case I’ll go home. He shifted the responsibility of his intrusion on Gerald on to the man.
“No. 96, sir,” the man said. “Yes, sir.”
“I used to be Mr. Trevor’s valet once, sir,” the man said.
Well, thought Ivor, taxis are stranger than fiction. He lay back and closed his eyes. The paper had dropped from the hot-water bottle, and he hugged the rubber thing to him, smiling at the idea of Magdalen.... God, how awful he felt! how his head racked him, and his breathing too!
The taxi pulled up, and after a while the driver jumped out to see to his fare, who seemed to make no movement. He found his fare a heap in the corner, his eyes closed.
“Mr. Trevor’s flat, sir,” said the man sympathetically. And he touched his fare’s arm.
“All right, all right!” Ivor impatiently murmured, and managed to stumble out. The man picked up the hot-water bottle from the pavement and handed it to him; he was a pleasant man.
“Shall I help you up, sir?” he asked.