ve been who possessed a husband who was her lover all his
waking hours.

"What! in this fog? And a lot I'd care if they did. Now, don't stir
till I come back; and above all, keep the light on."

"And hurry right back; I'm getting lonesome already."

He stepped out of the coupe. Harlequin, and Colombine, and
Humpty-Dumpty; shapes which came out of nowhere and instantly vanished
into nothing, for all the world like the absurd pantomimes of his
boyhood days. He kept close to the curb, scrutinizing the numbers as
he went along. Never had he seen such a fog. Two paces away from the
curb a headlight became an effulgence. Indeed, there were a thousand
lights jammed in the street, and the fog above absorbed the radiance,
giving the scene a touch of Brocken. All that was needed was a witch
on a broomstick. He counted five vehicles, and stopped. The
door-window was down.

"Miss Killigrew?" he said.

"Yes. Is anything wrong?"

"No. Just wanted to see if you were all right. Better let me take
your place and you ride with Mrs. Crawford."

"Good of you; but you've had enough trouble. I shall stay right here."

"Where's your light?"

"The globe is broken. I'd rather be in the dark. Its fun to look
about. I never saw anything to equal it."

"Not very cheerful. We'll be held up at least half an hour. You are
not afraid?"

"What, I?" She laughed. "Why should I be afraid? The wait will not
matter. But the truth is, I'm worried about mother. She would go to
that suffragette meeting; and I understand they have tried to burn up
the prime minister's house."

"Fine chance! But don't you worry. Your mother's a sensible woman.
She'll get back to the hotel, if she isn't there already."

"I wish she had not gone. Father will be tearing his hair and twigging
the whole Savoy force by the ears."

Crawford smiled. Readily enough he could conjure up the picture of Mr.
Killigrew, short, thick-set, energetic, raging back and forth in the
lobby, offering to buy taxicabs outright, the hotel, and finally the
city of London itself; typically money-mad American that he was.
Crawford wanted to laugh, but he compromised by saying: "He must be
very careful of that hair of his; he hasn't much left."

"And he pulls out a good deal of it on my account. Poor dad! Why in
the world should I marry a title?"

"Why, indeed!"

"Mrs. Crawford was beautiful tonight. There wasn't a beauty at the
opera to compare with her.