"Come down and put me in the car," said Molly briskly. "I left it at the door."
They descended the stairs. Owing to the eccentricity of the elevator, George had frequently had to go up and down these stairs before: but it was only now that he noticed for the first time a peculiarity about them that made them different from the stairs of every other apartment-house he had visited. They were, he observed, hedged about with roses and honeysuckle, and many more birds were singing on them than you would expect in an apartment-house. Odd. And yet, as he immediately realised, all perfectly in order.
Molly climbed into the two-seater: and George mentioned a point which had presented itself to him.
"I don't see why you need hurry off like this."
"I do. I've got to pack and get away before mother gets home."
"Is that blas ... is your stepmother in New York?"
"Yes. She came in to see the police."
Until this moment George had been looking on New York as something rather out of the common run of cities—he particularly liked the way those violets were sprouting up through the flagstones: but on receipt of this information he found that it had lost a little of its charm.
"Oh, she's in New York, is she?"
"Probably on her way home by now."