Imagine us facing a wind from the east composed of steel filings and all uncharity. We are somewhere in Chelsea, and for some reason or other, or none at all, I am accompanying him.
He (looking at his watch). I've got to be at Grosvenor Gardens by half-past one and there's not a taxi anywhere. We must walk fast and perhaps we'll meet one. Dash this War anyhow. (He said, as a matter of fact, "damn," but I am getting so tired of that word, in print that I shall employ alternatives every time. Someone really must institute a close season for "damns" or they won't any longer be funny on the stage; and, since to laugh in theatres has become a national duty, that, in the present state of the wit market, would be privation indeed.)
I (submerged by brain wave). Perhaps we'll meet one.
He. Keep a sharp look out, won't you? I 've got to be there by half-past one, and I hate to be late.
I. Those tailors you were asking me about—I think you'll find them very decent people. They——
He (excitedly). Here comes one. Hi! Hi!
[A taxi, obviously full of people, approaches and passes, the driver casting a pitying glance at my poor signalling friend.
He. I thought it was free.
I. The flag was down.
He. I couldn't be sure. What were you saying? Sorry.