But I was just too late. All I saw was a trim lithe young figure--rather like Connie’s, I thought--stepping on to an omnibus. (When I told the story at home I was at once asked how she was dressed, but naturally could not say.) I caught sight of a pair of slim square shoulders, a good deal of pretty brown hair, and finally a pair of neat black shoes, as their owner deftly mounted to the top of the swaying vehicle. "I just missed her face, old man," I replied. "Was she pretty?" Here I stopped. To address empty air in Piccadilly for any length of time causes one to incur the unworthy suspicions of the bystanders. It also causes a crowd to collect, which is an indictable offence. For I was alone. Afar off, pursuing a motor-omnibus just getting into its top speed, I beheld the flying figure of my friend. Presently he overtook the unwieldy object of his pursuit, hopped on board, and proceeded to climb to the top. At this moment the omnibus reached Bond Street--the first turning to the right--swung round the corner, and disappeared. BOOK THREE THE RIGHT ROAD NOTE The main idea of Book Three was suggested by a very minor episode in the closing chapters of ’A Man’s Man.’ The usual acknowledgments are therefore made to the author of that work. CHAPTER XII MICE AND MEN "Sylvia, is your father in from his walk?" Miss Sylvia Mainwaring, attired in a sage-green robe and distressingly rational boots, turned and surveyed her male parent’s recumbent form upon the sofa. "Yes, mother mine," she replied. (Sylvia was rather addicted to little preciosities of this kind.) "Is he awake?" "He is reading ’The Spectator,’ Mother," was the somewhat Delphic response. "Then ring for tea, dear." It was a bleak Saturday afternoon in late February. Darkness was closing in, and the great fire in the hall at The Towers flickered lovingly upon our leading weekly review, which, temporarily diverted from its original purpose in order to serve as a supplementary waistcoat for Mr. Mainwaring, rose and fell with gentle regularity in the warm glow. Mr. Mainwaring’s daughter rang a bell and switched on the electric light with remorseless severity; his wife came rustling down the broad oak staircase; and Mr. Mainwaring himself, realising that a further folding of the hands to sleep was out of the question, peeled off "The Spectator" and sat up. "Abel," observed Lady Adela--her husband’s baptismal name was a perpetual thorn in her ample flesh, but she made a point of employing it on all occasions, as a sort of reducing exercise to her family pride--"tea will be here in a moment."