"Yes--confound it!" thought McTaggart. He began to wish he had stayed abroad. They crawled along, past Trafalgar Square and its dripping lions, past Hampton's, then, before the block of carriages outside the Carlton, swerved to the right. Half way up the Haymarket hill McTaggart thrust his head out and shouted. "Hi! Cabby--stop a minute." His face brightened as he spoke. He opened the door and splashed across the muddy pavement into a shop with a quaint old fashioned bow-window and asked for a box of cigarettes. "Good evening, sir." The man smiled across the counter with an air of pleased recognition. "We haven't seen you lately, sir." Here was his first welcome home. "I've been abroad for eighteen months. I'll take a cigarette now." He lighted it with an English match, free from sulphur, and picked up the box. "You can put it down to the old address." He drew in the fragrant smoke with joy. "Good-night--I'll take these matches." His hand closed on them lovingly. He retraced his steps and dived once more into the stuffy, waiting cab. "Well--that's one thing you can't beat--our baccy," he said to himself as they jolted round against the curb into the full glare of the Circus. The wet streets mirrored back the thousand lights from above ... McTaggart felt, suddenly, something grip him by the throat. _London_! The magic of the word rushed up like a warm tide, round his heart, into his head. "Good old London!"--he caught his breath. "Mario!"--he touched the man. "Look out, quick! it's Piccadilly." A burly policeman waved them on. "Now, then--Hurry up!--four-wheeler." Dodging like a human eel between the buses, a ragged boy slipped past and paused at the window, his shrill voice raised in a cry: "Star!--'h _Ev'ning News_--Speshul! 'Ere you are, sir--h'all the winners..." jerked the paper into the cab, and was off, clutching McTaggart's penny. Like a silver ribbon streaked with light, Piccadilly stretched ahead, buses skidding, and near at hand rang the gay tootle of a horn. Then, into the congested space, rattling harness, clanking bits, a private coach, with four bays, wet and shining, splashed with froth, picked its way like a dainty dame, disdainful of the lesser traffic. Mario's dark face brightened. He loved horses and knew their points. This was a picture after his heart, dissipating his sense of gloom. For he could not see with McTaggart's eyes. At his master's quick, impulsive cry, he had peered out eagerly, pleased by the word "Piccadilly" with its familiar foreign ring. He saw a small open space, between a square and a circle, with shops and lights and a feeble statue--like a lost infant--in the centre. He stared at it with inward contempt.