half-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping
their theatre fares.

THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can't stand here until
half-past eleven. It's too bad.

THE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain't my fault, missus.

THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got
one at the theatre door.

THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?

THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn't he?

Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street
side, and comes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a
young man of twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the
ankles.

THE DAUGHTER. Well, haven't you got a cab?

FREDDY. There's not one to be had for love or money.

THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can't have tried.

THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get
one ourselves?

FREDDY. I tell you they're all engaged. The rain was so sudden: