"One of the aphorisms of Aphrodite, I suppose, to wear a Norfolk-jacket--or should I say a Norwood jacket?--on Sunday evening. You must excuse her, Mr. Touchwood." John was by this time thoroughly bored by the old lady's witticisms and delighted to leave her to fan herself in the firelight, while he and her daughter walked along toward King's Road. "No sign of a taxi," said John, whose mind was running on shorthand, though he was much too shy to raise the topic for a second time. "You don't mind going as far as Sloane Square by motor-bus?" A moment later they were climbing to the outside of a motor-bus; when John pulled the waterproof rug over their knees and felt the wind in his face while they swayed together and apart in the rapid motion, he could easily have fancied that they were once again upon the Atlantic. "I often think of our crossing," he said in what he hoped was an harmonious mixture of small talk and sentiment. "So do I." He tried to turn eagerly round, but was unable to do so on account of having fastened the strap of the rug. "Well, in Camera Square, wouldn't you?" she murmured. "You're not happy there?" In order to cover his embarrassment at finding he had asked what she might consider an impertinent question John turned away to fasten the rug more tightly, which nearly kept him from turning around again at all. "Don't let's talk about me," she begged, dismissing the subject with a curt little laugh. "How fast they do drive on Sunday." "Yes, the streets are empty," he agreed. Good heavens, at this rate they would be at Sloane Square in five minutes, and he might just as well never have called on her. What did it matter if the streets were empty? They were not half as empty as this conversation. "I'm working hard," he began. "Lucky you!" "At least when I say I'm working hard," he corrected himself, "I mean that I have been working hard. Just at present I'm rather worried by family matters." "Poor man, I sympathize with you." She might sympathize with him; but on this motor-bus her manner was so detached that nobody could have guessed it, John thought, and he had looked at her every time a street-lamp illuminated her expression. "I often think of our crossing," he repeated. "I'm sure it would be a great pity to let our friendship fade out into nothing. Won't you lunch with me one day?" "With pleasure." "Wednesday at Princes? Or no, better say the Carlton Grill." "Thanks so much." "It's not easy to talk on a motor-bus, is it?" John suggested. "No, it's like trying to talk to somebody whom you're seeing off in a train." "I hope you'll enjoy your evening. You'll remember me to Miss Merritt?" "Of course." Sloane Square opened ahead of them; but at any rate, John congratulated himself, he had managed to arrange a lunch for Wednesday and need no longer reproach himself for a complete deadlock. "I must hurry," she warned him when they had descended to the pavement. "Wednesday at one o'clock then."