"Oh."
They rode on a step or two. Then Valentine said:
"Are you going to take her out? She's—well, she is a trifle unmistakable, Julian."
"Yes, I know. You are right. She's not for afternoon wear, poor soul.
What damned scoundrels men are."
Valentine did not join in the sentiment thus forcibly expressed.
Between four and five that afternoon Julian hailed a cab and drove to Marylebone Road. The houses in it seemed endless, and dreary alike, but at length the cab drew up at number 400, tall, gaunt and haggard, like the rest. Julian rang the bell, and immediately a shrill dog barked with a piping fury within the house. Then the door was opened by an old woman, whose arid face was cabalistic, and who looked as if she spent her existence in expecting a raid from the police.
"Is Miss Cuckoo Bright at home?"
"Miss Bright! I'll see."
The old dame turned tail, and slithered, flat-footed, to a room opening from the dirty passage. She vanished and Julian heard two gentle voices muttering. The old woman returned.
"This way, sir!" she said, in a voice that perpetually struggled to get the whip-hand of an obvious bronchitis.