Mr. Marx had been leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee somewhat absently, and to all appearance altogether indifferent as to which way I should decide. He looked up now, however, and addressed Reynolds for the first time. "How the deuce do you know anything about what your master would prefer?" he said coolly. Reynolds made no answer, but looked appealingly at me. I chose not to see him. "I should imagine," Mr. Marx continued, leaning back in his chair again and deliberately stirring his coffee, "that if Mr. Ravenor has any choice about the matter at all, which seems to me very unlikely, he would prefer Mr. Morton's riding home in safety with a dry skin. Listen!" We did so, and at that moment a fierce gust of wind drove a very deluge of rain against the shaking window-panes. "That decides it!" I exclaimed. "I'll accept your offer, Mr. Marx, if you don't mind." "By far the more sensible thing to do," he remarked carelessly. "Have a glass of wine, Reynolds, before you start. You've a wet drive before you." Reynolds shook his head, and, wishing me a respectful good evening, withdrew. Mr. Marx watched Reynolds leave the room and then shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Honest, but stupid. Well, now you're in my charge, Morton, I must see whether I can't amuse you somehow. Ever been to the theatre?" I could not help a slight blush as I admitted that I had never even seen the outside of one. Mr. Marx looked at me after my admission as though I were some sort of natural curiosity. "Well, we'll go if you like," he said. "There's a very good one here, I believe, for the provinces, and it will be a change for you." "It will make us very late, won't it?" I ventured to say. "Not necessarily. I suppose it will be over about half-past ten and the carriage can meet us at the door." I said no more, for fear that he would take me at my word and give up the idea of going. In a few minutes Mr. Marx called for his bill and settled it, and, glancing at his watch, declared that it was time to be off. The waiter called a hansom, and we drove through the busy streets, Mr. Marx leisurely smoking a fragrant cigarette, and I leaning forward, watching the hurrying throngs of people, some pleasure-seekers, but mostly just released from their daily toil at the factory or workshop. It was a wet night and the streets seemed like a perfect sea of umbrellas. The rain was coming down in sheets, beating against the closed glass front of our cab and dimming its surface, until it became impossible to see farther than the horse's head. I leaned back by Mr. Marx's side with a sigh, and found that he had been watching me with an amused smile. "Busy little place, Torchester," he remarked. "It seems so to me," I acknowledged. "I have never been in any other town except Mellborough."