"Mercy!" screamed Mrs. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife.
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