Dodging like a human eel between the buses, a ragged boy slipped past and paused at the window, his shrill voice raised in a cry:
"Star!—'h Ev'ning News—Speshul! 'Ere you are, sir—h'all the winners..." jerked the paper into the cab, and was off, clutching McTaggart's penny.
Like a silver ribbon streaked with light, Piccadilly stretched ahead, buses skidding, and near at hand rang the gay tootle of a horn.
Then, into the congested space, rattling harness, clanking bits, a private coach, with four bays, wet and shining, splashed with froth, picked its way like a dainty dame, disdainful of the lesser traffic.
Mario's dark face brightened. He loved horses and knew their points. This was a picture after his heart, dissipating his sense of gloom.
For he could not see with McTaggart's eyes. At his master's quick, impulsive cry, he had peered out eagerly, pleased by the word "Piccadilly" with its familiar foreign ring.
He saw a small open space, between a square and a circle, with shops and lights and a feeble statue—like a lost infant—in the centre.
He stared at it with inward contempt.
"Not half as fine," he said to himself, "as the fountain in our Sienese palace! And as for the rest of the 'piazza' ... why, there isn't a single public building—not even a decent Church! And the rain ... Is this the English summer? No wonder it's a cold race!"
He looked covertly at his master, amazed by his obvious touch of excitement.