The adorable carelessness of twenty shrugged its shoulders.
“I don’t know. The Lord will provide.”
“If you can’t find a taxi, will you walk?”
The question implied a hope, so obvious that she laughed gaily.
“There are buses also and tubes.”
“In which you can’t travel alone at this time of night.”
She scoffed: “Oh, can’t I?” But his manifest fear that she should encounter satyrs in train or omnibus pleased her greatly.
“Father’s dining at his club close by and is calling for me. He will see that you get home safely,” said Janet Philimore.
“It’s miles out of your way, dear,” said Olivia. “I’ll put myself in the hands of Mr. Triona.”
So, taxis being unfindable, they walked together through the warm London night to Victoria Street. It was then that he spoke of his work, the novel just completed. Of all opinions on earth, hers was the one he most valued. If only he could read it to her and have the priceless benefit of her judgment. Secretly flattered, she modestly depreciated, however, her critical powers. He persisted, attributing to her unsuspected qualities of artistic perception. At last, not reluctantly, she yielded. He could begin the next evening.