"Suppose I gave you some money and put you down here and left
you?" I inquired.

"I should die," she answered, fatalistically. "Or, perhaps, I
should find another kind gentleman."

"I wonder if you have such a thing as a soul," said I.

She plucked at her gown. "I have only this--and it is very
ugly," she remarked again. "I should like a pink dress."

We crossed Trafalgar Square, and I saw by Big Ben that it was a
quarter to six. I could not drive through London with her for an
indefinite period. Besides, my half past seven dinner awaited
me.

Why, oh, why has Judith gone to Paris? Had she been in town I
could have shot Carlotta into Tottenham Mansions, and gone home
to my dinner and Cristoforo da Costa with a light heart. Judith
would have found Carlotta vastly entertaining. She would have
washed her body and analysed her temperament. But Judith was in
retreat with Delphine Carrere, and has left me alone to bear the
responsibilities of life--and Carlotta.

The cab slowly mounted Waterloo Place. I had thought of my aunts
as possible helpers, and rejected the idea. I had thought of a
police station, a hotel, my lawyers (too late), a furnished
lodging, a hospital. My mind was an aching blank.

"Where do you live?" asked Carlotta.