, and the crowd parted for them to pass.
Jeffrey was amused and dashed. He couldn't leave her, nor could they
sail away in Weedon's car. He put a hand on her arm.

"See here, Madame Beattie," said he, "we can't do this. We must get out
at the gate, at least."

But Madame Beattie was bowing graciously to right and left. Once she
rose for an instant and addressed a curt sentence to the crowd, and in
answer they cheered, a full-mouthed chorus of one word in different
tongues.

"What are they yelling?" Jeffrey asked.

"It's for you," Madame Beattie said composedly. "They're cheering you."

"Me? How do you know? That's not my name."

"No. It's The Prisoner. They're calling you The Prisoner."

They were at the gate now, and turned into the road and, with a free
course before him, the man put on speed and they were away. Jeffrey bent
forward to him, but Madame Beattie pulled him back.

"What are you doing?" she inquired. "We're going home."

"This is Moore's car," Jeffrey reminded her.

"No, it isn't. It's the proletariat's car." She rolled the _r_
surprisingly. "Do you suppose he comes out here to corrupt those poor
devils without making them pay for being corrupted? Jeffrey, take off
your coat."

"What for?" He had resigned himself to his position. It was a fit part
of the whole eccentric pastime, and after all it was only Weedie's car.

"I shall take cold. I got very warm speaking. My voice--"

To neither of them now was it absurd. Though it was years since she had
had a voice the habit of a passionate care was still alive in her.
Jeffrey had come on another rug, and wrapped it round her. He went back
to his first wonder.

"But what is there in being a prisoner to start up such a row?"

Madame Beattie had retired into the rug. She sunk her chin in it and
would talk no more. Without further interchange they drew up at her
house. Jeffrey got out and helped her, and she stood for a moment,
pressing her hand on his arm, heavily, as an old woman leans.

"Ah, Jeffrey," said she rapidly, in a low but quite a naked tone with no
lisping ornament, "this is a night. To think I should have to come back
here to this God-forsaken spot for a minute of the old game. Hundreds
hanging on my voice--" he fancied she had forgotten now whether she had
not sung to them--"and feeling what I told them to feel. They're capital
people. We'll talk to them again."

She had turned toward the door and now she came back and struck his