It was the question I had been asking myself all the way in the train.
"That's just it," I said miserably, "I don't know."
He was a sympathetic-looking cabman—not one of the modern type, but the aged director of a thin horse and a genuinely antique four-wheeler.
"It's rather an awkward situation," I explained doubtfully; "you see, Dorice forgot—I mean I'm supposed to be going to a dance somewhere round here. I was told to drive straight to the hall—I don't know what hall."
"That's all right, Sir," answered the sympathetic cabman encouragingly; "you were told to drive straight to the 'all; that'll be Naughton 'All."
He proceeded to awaken the thin horse.
"There is a big do on there to-night, Sir. It's a fair way out, but I'll 'ave yer there in no time."
"My dear good man," I remonstrated nervously, "for heaven's sake don't rush at things like that. Is this particular dance you wish to take me to given by some people named Perry?"
"Perry? Lord! no! Sir John Oakham, lives at Naughton 'All. It's 'is party."
The sympathetic cabman was a little pained at my ignorance.