As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery.
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