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“Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. ‘Hang it all, Mrs Sindlesham is right! You are two of a kind.

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