‘Here are the lights again,’ said Mrs Viveash. ‘Hop, twitch, flick—yes, genuinely an illusion of jollity, Theodore. Genuinely.’
Gumbril stopped the cab. ‘It’s after half-past eight,’ he said. ‘At this rate we shall never get anything to eat. Wait a minute.’
He ran into Appenrodt’s, and came back in a moment with a packet of smoked salmon sandwiches, a bottle of white wine and a glass.
‘We have a long way to go,’ he explained, as he got into the taxi.
They ate their sandwiches, they drank their wine. The taxi drove on and on.
‘This is positively exhilarating,’ said Mrs Viveash, as they turned into the Edgware Road.
Polished by the wheels and shining like an old and precious bronze, the road stretched before them, reflecting the lamps. It had the inviting air of a road which goes on fo
