[In the Taxicab]
They were alone together in the taxicab, the one which had been waiting. Draycott had been left behind. There had been a brief discussion as to the address to which the man was to be told to drive.
"Where are we going?" she had asked him.
"You are perfectly well aware," he had told her in the grave tones which had seemed to have become habitual, "that I'm not a fit person for you to consort with. Let us say to each other all that there is to be said here; it shouldn't take very long, there is so little to be said; then let us part company--for ever."
"That is your opinion, is it? It's very nice of you to express it. Where are you living?"
"In a road near Clapham Junction--Lavender Sweep; a name which suggests possibilities--which don't go any farther than the name. It's a street of little houses."
"What is your number?"
"A hundred and ninety-seven."
She spoke to the cabman.
"Drive us to 197 Lavender Sweep, Clapham Junction." Then to Beaton: "Will you open the door for me?"