“Shall we find him in, I wonder?” It would be fun to see Shearwater again. She liked to hear him talking, learnedly, and like a child. But when the child is six feet high and three feet wide and two feet thick, when it tries to plunge head first into your life—then, really, no.... “But what did you want with me?” he had asked. “Just to look at you,” she answered. Just to look; that was all. Music hall, not boudoir. “Here we are.” Gumbril got out and rang the second floor bell. The door was opened by an impertinent-looking little maid. “Mr. Shearwater’s at the lavatory,” she said, in answer to Gumbril’s question. “Laboratory?” he suggested. “At the ’ospital.” That made it clear. “And is Mrs. Shearwater at home?” he asked maliciously. The little maid shook her head. “I expected ’er, but she didn’t come back to dinner.” “Would you mind giving her a message when she does come in,” said Gumbril. “Tell her that Mr. Toto was very sorry he hadn’t time to speak to her when he saw her this evening in Pimlico.” “Mr. who?” “Mr. Toto.” “Mr. Toto is sorry ’e ’adn’t the time to speak to Mrs. Shearwater when ’e saw ’er in Pimlico this evening. Very well, sir.” “You won’t forget?” said Gumbril. “No, I won’t forget.” He went back to the cab and explained that they had drawn blank once more. “I’m rather glad,” said Mrs. Viveash. “If we ever did find anybody, it would mean the end of this Last-Ride-Together feeling. And that would be sad. And it’s a lovely night. And really, for the moment, I feel I can do without my lights. Suppose we just drove for a bit now.” But Gumbril would not allow that. “We haven’t had enough to eat yet,” he said, and he gave the cabman Gumbril Senior’s address. Gumbril Senior was sitting on his little iron balcony among the dried-out pots that had once held geraniums, smoking his pipe and looking earnestly out into the darkness in front of him. Clustered in the fourteen plane trees of the square, the starlings were already asleep. There was no sound but the rustling of the leaves. But sometimes, every hour or so, the birds would wake up. Something—perhaps it might be a stronger gust of wind, perhaps some happy dream of worms, some nightmare of cats simultaneously dreamed by all the flock together—would suddenly rouse them. And then they would all start to talk at once, at the tops of their shrill voices—for perhaps half a minute. Then in an instant they all went to sleep again and there was once more no sound but the rustling of the shaken leaves. At these moments Mr. Gumbril would lean forward, would strain his eyes and his ears in the hope of seeing, of hearing something—something significant, explanatory, satisfying. He never did, of course; but that in no way diminished his happiness. Mr. Gumbril received them on his balcony with courtesy. “I was just thinking of going in to work,” he said. “And now you come and give me a good excuse for sitting out here a little longer. I’m delighted.”