“You shouldn’t!” she began, reproachfully.
“You obviously couldn’t go home without an umbrella,” he returned calmly; “and the spirit of prophecy doesn’t descend upon a man more than once or twice in a lifetime. When it does, he should always take a hansom.”
“How comfortable!” Bridget exclaimed, settling herself against the padded back of the cab. “I’ve never been in a hansom before! Ah, how beautiful the lights are! See that long line of lamps reflected in the wet pavement!” She never forgot this drive,—from Piccadilly to Wentworth Street. In dreams, sometimes, she saw long, dark roads, outlined in points of flame, white smoke rising from the reeking flanks of the horse, as the lamplight for a moment streamed full across its path,—shining, wet pavements, reflecting yellow gleams: all seen through rain-dimmed glass. In dreams, too, the sound of Carey’s voice had, as an accompaniment, the ring of hoofs on the road, and the jingle of harness.... They talked nearly all the way, freely, without reserve. Until they reached a street in the neighborhood of her lodgings, a street familiar to Bridget, she had forgotten that he was going, that this was probably their last meeting. She realized it then all at once, with painful suddenness. It was like a dreaded parting with some one dear to her. Carey looked down at her. She was silent, leaning back against the cushions, her chin a little lifted. The lighted lamp overhead threw out her profile in strong relief against the dark background of the cab. His eyes rested on her face. It was pale, and there was a pathetic, tired droop about her mouth. Her waving hair fell in bewildering little rings on her white forehead.
He put out his hand with a sudden, impulsive movement, and withdrew it as hastily.
She did not see the gesture, but the slight movement made her turn her face towards him.
“You will send me the stories, then,” he said a little hurriedly. “You won’t forget—to-morrow? I shall get them in time. You have the address?”
“Yes,” she returned, and then added, “it is so good of you.”
“Why, to be curious?” he asked lightly. “I want to see them.”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed; it’s so difficult to judge one’s own work, isn’t it?”
She felt she was speaking mechanically, for the sake of saying something. The cab had turned into Wentworth Street. She could see the lamp-post just opposite Mrs. Fowler’s house.