"Will you?" she said, suddenly wheeling round, and bestowing upon him a glance of obvious gratitude. "That is indeed kind of you! Now I don't care for all the fogs in Christendom. But really and truly," she added—"really and truly you must tell me if I am taking you away from any other engagement."
"Not at all," he said, idly. "I had thought of going up to the Garden Club for some supper, but it isn't the sort of night for anybody to be wandering about. When I've left you in the Edgeware Road, I can find my way to my rooms easily. Once in Park Lane, I could go blindfold."
And very proud and pleased was Miss Burgoyne to accept his escort—that is to say, when he had, with an immense amount of trouble, brought a four-wheeled cab, accompanied by two link-boys with blazing torches, up to the stage-door. And when they had started off on their unknown journey through this thick chaos, she did not minimize the fears she otherwise should have suffered; this was thanking him by implication. As for the route chosen by the cabman, or rather by the link-boys, neither he nor she had the faintest idea what it was. Outside they could see nothing but the gold and crimson of the torches flaring through the densely yellow fog; while the grating of the wheels against the curb told them that their driver was keeping as close as he could to the pavement. Then they would find themselves leaving that guidance, and blindly adventuring out into the open thoroughfare to avoid some obstacle—some spectral wain or omnibus got hopelessly stranded; while there were muffled cries and calls here, there, and everywhere. They went at a snail's pace, of course. Once, at a corner, the near wheels got on the pavement; the cab tilted over; Miss Burgoyne shrieked aloud and clung to her companion; then there was a heavy bump, and the venerable vehicle resumed its slow progress. Suddenly they beheld a cluster of dim, nebulous, phantom lights high up in air.
"This must be Oxford Circus, surely," Lionel said.
He put his head out of the window and called to the cabman.
"Where are we now, cabby?"
"Blessed if I know, sir!" was the husky answer, coming from under the heavy folds of a cravat.
"Boy," he called again, "where are we? Is this Oxford Circus?"
"No, no, sir," responded the sharp voice of the London gamin. "We ain't 'alf way up Regent Street yet!"
He shut the window.