“Let him pass, Iris! Damn you, it won’t hold the road!”
“Why, the road’s fainting with joy! Can do seventy-six if you like. But not more....”
A new road, recently laid down to soften the passage of footlight-favourites to the reaches of Taplow and Maidenhead, wide, deserted of houses. Meadows swept each side into the desert darkness. Iris, perhaps remembering Mr. Polly, perhaps thinking Mr. Polly had slept long enough, kicked open the exhaust. That lends another mile an hour to speed. Another sixty horses gave answer behind, then fell snarling back towards London. “Seventy-one, Iris!”
“Ow!” she breathed. “Accelerator burning foot. Ow! Hell!”
“Maidenhead!” screamed Shirley.
“To the right, Iris!”
And so we came into the yard of Quindle’s. Still, sleeping, shuttered, Quindle’s hostelry was a rebuke to the flaming lights which made a festival of the desert scene. Then Guy’s car swung in, poor winged Mercury. Shows one, don’t you know, how much gods are worth....
“Sickening, Iris. You had me properly beat that time.”
“But how my foot burns, Guy!”
“Look!” said Venice. “Hist!”