MRS. F. I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't dawdle like this. If you won't speak to him, I must. (_Lets down the glass and puts out her head._) Peacock! A BLURRED SHADOW ON THE BOX. Yes, M'm. MRS. F. What are we stopping for like this? THE SHADOW. Fog very thick just 'ere, M'm. Can't see what's in front of us, M'm. MRS. F. It's just as safe to keep moving as to stand still--go on at once. THE S. Very good, M'm. (_To horse._) Pull urp! [_Crash!_ VOICE FROM THE UNSEEN. What the blanky blank, &c. PEACOCK. There _is_ suthin in front, M'm. A van, from 'is langwich, M'm. MRS. F. (_sinking back_). Marmaduke, this is awful. I'd no idea the fog was like this--or I should never have----(_With temper._) Really, people have no _right_ to ask one out on such a night. MR. F. (_with the common sense that makes him "so aggravating at times"_). Well, Fanny, you could hardly expect 'em to foresee the weather three weeks ahead! MRS. F. At all events, _you_ might have seen what it was going to be as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram! MR. F. It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I--ah--regard a dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be broken except under pressing necessity. MRS. F. You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the Cordon-Blewitts,--not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have you any idea whereabouts we are? MR. F. (_calmly_). None whatever. MRS. F. Then ask Peacock. MR. F. (_lets down his window, and leans out_). Peacock! THE SHADOW. Sir? MR. F. Where have we got to now? PEACOCK. I ain't rightly sure, Sir. MRS. F. Tell him to turn round, and go home. MR. F. It's no use going on like this. Turn back. PEACOCK. I dursn't leave the kerb--all I got to go by, Sir. MR. F. Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse. PEACOCK. It's the _young_ 'orse, Sir. MR. F. (_sinking back_). We must put up with it, I suppose. [_A smart crack is heard at the back of the carriage._ MORE VOICES. Now, then, why the blanky dash, &c., &c. 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.