The hansom rolled rapidly and smoothly along upon that well-established novelty, india-rubber tyres.  Bits of the jingling harness oscillated regularly from side to side.  At intervals the whip-thong dragged gently across the horse’s back, and the horse lifted and shook its head.  The shallow and narrow interior of the hansom was constructed with exactitude to hold two.  Neither occupant could move in any direction, and neither desired to move.  The splendidly lighted avenues, of which every detail could be discerned as by day, flowed evenly past the vehicle.

“I’ve never been in a hansom before,” said Marguerite timidly—­because the situation was so dismaying in its enchantment.

He, from the height of two years of hansom-using, was touched, delighted, even impressed.  The staggering fact increased her virginal charm and its protectiveness.  He thought upon the simplicity of her existence.  Of course she had never been in a hansom!  Hansoms were obviously outside her scheme.  He said nothing, but he sought for and found her hand beneath the apron.  She did not resist.  He reflected “Can she resist?  She cannot.”  Her hand was in a living swoon.  Her hand was his; it was admittedly his.  She could never deny it, now.  He touched the button of the glove, and undid it.  Then, moving her passive hand, he brought both his to it, and with infinitely delicate and considerate gestures he slowly drew off the glove, and he held her hand ungloved.  She did not stir nor speak.  Nothing so marvellous as her exquisite and confiding stillness had ever happened....  The hansom turned into Alexandra Grove, and when it stopped he pushed the glove into her hand, which closed on it.  As they descended the cabman, accustomed to peer down on loves pure and impure, gave them a beneficent look.

“He’s not come in,” said Marguerite, glancing through the flap of the front door.  She was exceedingly self-conscious, but beneath her self-consciousness could be noticed an indignant accusation against old Haim.  She had rung the bell and knocked.

“Are you sure?  Can you see the hat-stand?”

“I can see it enough for that.”

“Look here,” George suggested, with false lightness, “I expect I could get in through my window.”  His room was on the ground floor, and not much agility was needed to clamber up to its ledge from the level of the area.  He might have searched his pockets again and discovered his latchkey, but he would not.  Sooner than admit a deception he would have remained at the door with her all night.

“Think you could?”

“Yes.  I could slide the window-catch.”

He jumped down the steps and showed her how he could climb.  In two minutes he was opening the front door to her from the inside.  She moved towards him in the gloom.

“Oh!  My portfolio!” She stopped, and bent down to the mat.