“Certainly, if you wish it and it gives you any pleasure. Perhaps I may like her better when I know more of her.” “You see, you can't drop people because you don't happen to take a violent fancy to them,” he said rather lamely. And then he added: “I wish you had let me ask them to supper.” “Why?” “It would have livened us up a little.” “Perhaps it would,” answered Clytie almost wearily. “I half wish you had.” The evanescent charm had gone from the drive. The weather, too, had changed. Clouds, that had imperceptibly gathered, covered the moon. The quay looked desolate, the water black and lifeless, on the other side the great buildings loomed forbidding in the darkness. An air of disenchantment was over all things. “Will monsieur turn back? It is going to rain,” said the cabman, lounging sideways and looking down at them. They turned off through the narrow streets, on the nearest way back to the hotel. The cab horse was tired and jogged on painfully, indifferent to the loud-cracking whip and the “_hue's_” addressed to him in the driver's raucous voice. Clytie shivered a little at the sudden fall in the temperature. She was chilled too--ever so little--at her heart. She drew away slightly from her husband, who held her hand mechanically. When she withdrew it he did not seem to notice. He had discovered that he was annoyed about the supper. Suddenly the horse, overdriven, stumbled, tried to recover himself, and then crashed down helpless, snapping the shaft. The victoria lurched violently on the side where Clytie was sitting. To save herself she jumped out quickly, but her foot slipped on the kerb and she nearly fell. Thornton sprang out and raised her, and then turned to the coachman in a sudden frenzy of passion. He stood there moving his arms about and cursed him in English. Clytie was shocked to the heart. She was thankful that she could see his face but dimly in the bad gaslight. The cabman shrugged his shoulders as he bent down to loosen the traces. Some people came up, chiefly from a small _brasserie_ whose few tables were just visible some yards further along the street. Another cab arrived and paused, interested and expectant, watching the scene: the little group round the fallen horse; the stately figure of the girl in white dress and rich opera-cloak standing by the upset cab; the great figure of the man, stamping with rage, pouring forth a torrent of oaths. It all happened very quickly. Clytie touched her husband's arm quietly. “Stop, Thornton,” she said. “He does not even understand you.” Thornton looked at her for a moment, then at the group. Then he burst into a loud laugh, pulled a ten-franc piece from his pocket and threw it to the cabman, who picked it up with an ironical, “_Merci, bourgeois_.”