It was past one o’clock when George Tarlyon and I set foot again in
Grosvenor Square; we walked up South Audley Street, and I stopped at my
door.
“Good-night, George,” I said. But Tarlyon held my arm.
“You are coming home with me,” says he.
“Nonsense!” said I; and though I was friendly, I was firm. “There was
once a woman in a play by Shaw who amazed five continents by the magic
words, ‘Not bloody likely.’ At this moment I am that woman, and it is
thus that I refuse your solicitations. I have drunk brandy, and I would
sleep. Good-night, George Almeric St. George.”
But he is a very tall man, and he dragged me by the arm down South
Audley Street, the while crying mighty cries after the manner of one who
wants a taxi immediately; and into one he threw me, and the taxi hurled
itself towards Belgrave Square, where George Tarlyon lives in a house
which, together with much money, was left to him by his wife, who died
before she could make a will.