“What to do?”
“To dispose of you somehow,” I replied, grimly. “But how, I haven’t a notion. There’s a Home for Lost Dogs and a Home for Stray Cats, and a Lost Property Office at Scotland Yard, but as you are neither a dog nor a cat nor an umbrella, these refuges are unavailable.”
The cab reached the Strand.
“East or west, sir?” inquired the driver.
“West,” said I, at random.
We drove down the Strand at a leisurely pace. I passed through a phase of agonised thought. By my side was a helpless, homeless, friendless, penniless young woman, as beautiful as a goddess and as empty-minded as a baby. What in the world could I do with her? I looked at her in despair. She met my glance with a contented smile; just as if we were old acquaintances and I were taking her out to dinner. The unfamiliar roar and bustle of London impressed her no more than it would have impressed a little dog who had found a kind master.
“Suppose I gave you some money and put you down here and left you?” I inquired.
“I should die,” she answered, fatalistically. “Or, perhaps, I should find another kind gentleman.”
“I wonder if you have such a thing as a soul,” said I.
She plucked at her gown. “I have only this—and it is very ugly,” she remarked again. “I should like a pink dress.”