_Mrs. F._ MARMADUKE, I can't sit here, and know that a bus-pole may come between us at any moment. Let us get out, and take a cab home at once. _Mr. F._ There's only one objection to that suggestion--viz., that it's perfectly impossible to tell a cab from a piano-organ. We must find out where we are first, and then turn. PEACOCK, drive on as well as you can, and stop when you come to a shop. _Mrs. F._ What do you want to stop at a shop for? _Mr. F._ Why, then I can go in, and ask where we _are_. _Mrs. F._ And how do you expect _them_ to know where we are! (_She sees a smear of light in the distance._) MARMADUKE, there's a linkman. Get out quick, and hire him to lead the way. _Mr. F._ (_who gets out, and follows in the direction of the light, grumbling to himself_). Hallo!--not past the Park yet--here's the railings! Well, if I keep close to them, I shall--(_He suddenly collides with a bench._) Phew! Oh, confound it! (_He rubs his shins._) Now, if it hadn't been for FANNY, I--Where's that linkman? Hi!--you there!--stop! (_The light stops._) Look here--I want you to come to my carriage, and show my man the way out of this! _Voice from behind the Railings_. We got to find our _own_ way out fust, Guv'nor. We're _inside_! _A Belated Reveller_ (_lurching up to Mr. F._) Beg your pardon, bur cou' you dreck me nearesht way--er--Dawshon Plashe? _Mr. F._ (_savagely_). First turning to the right, third to the left, and then straight on till you come to it! _The B.R._. I'm exsheedingly 'blished; (_confidentially_) fact ish, I'm shuffrin' shli' 'fection eyeshi', an' I 'shure you, can't shee anyshing dishtingly to-ni'. (_He cannons against a lamp-post, to which he clings affectionately, as a Policeman emerges from the gloom._) _Policeman_. Now then, what are you doing 'ere, eh? _The B.R._ Itsh all ri', P'lishman, thish gerrilman--(_patting lamp-post affectionately_)--has kindly promished shee me home. _Mr. F._ Hang it! Where's PEACOCK and the brougham? (_He discovers a phantom vehicle by the kerb, and gets in angrily._) Now, look here, my dear, it's no earthly good--! _Occupant of the Brougham_ (_who is_ not FANNY). Coward, touch a defenceless woman if you dare! I have nothing on me of any value. Help! Police! [_Mr. F., seeing that explanation is useless, lets himself out again, precipitately, dodges the Policeman, and bolts, favoured by the fog, until all danger of pursuit is passed, at the end of which time he suddenly realises that it is perfectly hopeless to attempt to find his own carriage again. He gropes his way home, and some hours later, after an extemporised cold supper, is rejoined by his Wife._ _Mrs. F._ (_cheerfully_). So there you are, MARMADUKE! I wasn't anxious--I felt sure you'd find your way back somehow! _Mr. F._ (_not in the best of tempers_). Find my way back! It was the only thing I could do. But where have _you_ been all this time, FANNY?