"Good evening, sir." The man smiled across the counter with an air of pleased recognition. "We haven't seen you lately, sir." Here was his first welcome home.
"I've been abroad for eighteen months. I'll take a cigarette now." He lighted it with an English match, free from sulphur, and picked up the box.
"You can put it down to the old address." He drew in the fragrant smoke with joy. "Good-night—I'll take these matches." His hand closed on them lovingly. He retraced his steps and dived once more into the stuffy, waiting cab.
"Well—that's one thing you can't beat—our baccy," he said to himself as they jolted round against the curb into the full glare of the Circus.
The wet streets mirrored back the thousand lights from above ... McTaggart felt, suddenly, something grip him by the throat.
London! The magic of the word rushed up like a warm tide, round his heart, into his head.
"Good old London!"—he caught his breath.
"Mario!"—he touched the man. "Look out, quick! it's Piccadilly."
A burly policeman waved them on.
"Now, then—Hurry up!—four-wheeler."