The accident was more amusing than tragic, though neither Mrs. Knight nor Aunt Annie was capable of perceiving this fact. The horse emerged gallantly, unharmed, and the window of the hansom was not even cracked. The constable congratulated everyone and took down the names of the two drivers, the two ladies, and the knife-grinder. The condition of the weather fortunately, militated against the formation of a large crowd. Quite two minutes elapsed before Aunt Annie made the horrible discovery that _Love in Babylon_ had disappeared. _Love in Babylon_ was smothered up in spring onions. 'Keep your nerve, madam,' said the constable, seeing signs of an emotional crisis, 'and go and stand in that barber's doorway--both of you.' The ladies obeyed. In due course _Love in Babylon_ was excavated, chapter by chapter, and Aunt Annie held it safely once more, rumpled but complete. By the luckiest chance an empty four-wheeler approached. The sisters got into it, and Aunt Annie gave the address. 'As quick as you can,' she said to the driver, 'but do drive slowly.' CHAPTER X MARK SNYDER Three-quarters of an hour later Henry might have been seen--in fact, was seen by a number of disinterested wayfarers--to enter a magnificent new block of offices and flats in Charing Cross Road. _Love in Babylon_ was firmly gripped under his right arm. Partly this strange burden and partly the brilliant aspect of the building made him feel self-conscious and humble and rather unlike his usual calm self. For, although Henry was accustomed to offices, he was not accustomed to magnificent offices. There are offices in Lincoln's Inn Fields, offices of extreme wealth, which, were they common lodging-houses, would be instantly condemned by the County Council. Powells was such a one--and Sir George had a reputed income of twenty thousand a year. At Powells the old Dickensian tradition was kept vigorously alive by every possible means. Dirt and gloom were omnipresent. Cleanliness and ample daylight would have been deemed unbusinesslike, as revolutionary and dangerous as a typewriter. One day, in winter, Sir George had taken cold, and he had attributed his misfortune, in language which he immediately regretted, to the fact that 'that d----d woman had cleaned the windows'--probably with a damp cloth. 'That d----d woman' was the caretaker, a grey-haired person usually dressed in sackcloth, who washed herself, incidentally, while washing the stairs. At Powells, nothing but the stairs was ever put to the indignity of a bath.