at he
would wait in Cork Street for half an hour. This plan appealed to him
for the mere reason that it was negative.

As he opened the front door he saw a taxi standing outside. The
taxi-man had taken one of the lamps from its bracket, and was looking
into the interior of the cab, which was ornate with toy-curtains
and artificial flowers to indicate to the world that he was an
owner-driver and understood life. Hearing the noise of the door,
he turned his head--he was wearing a bowler hat and a smart white
muffler--and said to G.J., with self-respecting respect for a
gentleman:

"This is No. 170, isn't it, sir?"

"Yes."

The taxi-man jerked his head to draw G.J.'s attention to the interior
of the vehicle. Christine was half on the seat and half on the floor,
unconscious, with shut eyes.

Instantly G.J. was conscious of making a complete recovery from all
the effects, physical and moral, of the air-raid.

"Just help me to get her out, will you?" he said in a casual tone,
"and I'll carry her upstairs. Where did you pick the lady up?"

"Strand, sir, nearly opposite Romano's."

"The dickens you did!"

"Shock from air-raid, I suppose, sir."

"Probably."

"She did seem a little upset when she hailed me, or I shouldn't have
taken her. I was off home, and I only took her to oblige."

The taxi-man ran quickly round to the other side of the cab and
entered it by the off-door, behind Christine. Together the men lifted
her up.

"I can manage her," said G.J. calmly.

"Excuse me, sir, you'll have to get hold lower down, so as her
waist'll be nearly as high as your shoulder. My brother's a fireman."

"Right," said G.J. "By the way, what's the fare?"

Holding Christine across his shoulder with the right arm, he
unbuttoned his overcoat with his left hand and took out change from
his trouser pocket for the driver.

"You might pull the door to after me," he said, in response to the
driver's expression of thanks.

"Certainly, sir."

The door banged. He was alone with Christine on the long, dark,
inclement stairs. He felt the contours of her body through her
clothes. She was limp, helpless. She was a featherweight. She was
nothing at all; inexpressibly girlish, pathetic, dear. Never had G.J.
felt as he felt then. He mounted the stairs rather quickly, with firm,
disdaining steps, and, despite his being a little out of breath,
he had a tremendous triumph over the stolidity of Marthe when she
answered his ring. Mart