Maggie told her about the visit, Aunt Anne looked at her curiously. She seemed so weak and frail that Maggie suddenly felt warm maternal love. Rather shyly she put her hand upon her aunt's: "I won't go away until you're better--" Aunt Anne nodded her head. "I know you won't, dear," she said. "Don't be out late to-day. We shall be anxious about you." Maggie had made a promise and was terrified when she thought of it. Suppose her aunt did not get better for years and years? People often had long lingering illnesses with no apparent change in their condition. To Maggie a promise was an utterly final thing. She could not dream that one ever broke one's word. She trembled now when she thought of what she had done. She had been entrapped after all and by her own free will. In her little room as she was putting on her hat she suddenly prayed to a God, of whom she knew nothing, that her aunt might get better soon. She started out on her great adventure with a strange self-assurance as though loving Martin had given her the wisdom of all the ages. Turning down the street towards the Strand she found almost at once a taxi-cab drawn up, as though it had been waiting there especially for her like an eloping coach in a romantic tale. A fat red-faced fellow with a purple nose, a cloth cap and a familiar vague eye, as though he always saw further than he intended, waited patiently for her to speak. Boldly, as though she had done such things all her life, she said, "Fourteen Bryanston Square." Then she slipped in and was hidden from the gay world. She sat there, her hands on her lap staring at the three crimson rolls in the neck of her driver. She was thinking of nothing, nothing at all. Did she struggle to think? Only words would come, "Martin," or "Bryanston Square," or "cab," again and again, words that did not mean anything but physical sensations. "Martin" hot fire at the throat, "Bryanston Square" an iron rod down the spine, and "cab" dust and ashes in the eyes. She tried to look at herself in the little mirror opposite her, but she could only catch the corner of her cheek and half her hat. But she minded less about her appearance now. If Martin could love her it did not matter what others thought--nevertheless she pulled her hat about a little and patted her dress. The cab stopped and she felt desperately lonely. Did any one care about her anywhere? No, no one. She could have cried with pity at the thought of her own loneliness. "One and sixpence, Miss," said the cabman in so husky a voice. She gave it to him. "What's this?" he asked, looking at it. "One and sixpence," she answered timidly, wondering at his sarcastic eye. "Oh well, o' course," he said, looking her all over. She knew instinctively that he demanded more. She found another sixpence. "Is that enough?" she asked. He seemed ashamed. "If I 'adn't a wife sick--" he began.