ANGEL PAVEMENT

Anyhow. I thought, if you didn't mind? we might go

there.*'

"All right," she replied, not very enthusiastically.
Some of those little Soho places were rather foul, and
old Warwick of the Chestervern Agricultural might not
be a very good judge. "Let's go there, and you can dig
out the name and address on the way, We'll hurry and
ouch a bus."

"Oh, will a bus be all right?" he cried, obviously re-
lieved. "I thought perhaps we might have to take a
taxi."

"No, a bus will do," she told him. A taxi, though,
would have done a great deal better. She loved riding
in taxis. Perhaps—who knows?—if Mr. Birtley had in-
sisted upon their having a taxi, the whole evening might
have been different.

Once again she went jogging down the long hill, past
the sudden sparkle of Swiss Cottage, the genteel gloom
of St. John's Wood, and a Baker Street that was now
like a series of captivating peep-shows. They did not
talk much inside the bus, which was full and uncom-
monly noisy, but he shouted a few questions about the
Club and Ingleton-Dodd (whom he regarded with
horror) and the office and her father and mother, and
she screamed fairly adequate if brief replies. Her spirits
rose when they actually arrived at Soho, for though she
had some mournful memories of its table d'hote, and
had been in London long enough to be sceptical about
its romantic Bohemianism, she could not resist the place
itself, the glimpses of foreign interiors, the windows
filled with outlandish food-stuffs, chianti flasks, and
bundles of long cheroots, the happy foolish little decora-
tions, the strange speech, the dark faces, the girls lean-