"
With one last outrending scream the whole world seemed to fling
itself at the window, open because Aunt Anne thought the cab "had a
smell." "Oosh--O O S H." "OOSH." . . . Maggie drew back as though
she expected some one to leap in upon them. Then, with that
marvellous and ironical gift of contrast that is London's secret,
they were suddenly driven into the sleepiest quiet; they stumbled up
a street that was like a cave for misty darkness and muffled echoes.
The cab's wheels made a riotous clatter.
A man posting a letter in a pillar-box was the only figure in the
street. The stars shone overhead with wonderful brilliance, and a
little bell jangled softly close at hand. All the houses were tall
and secret, with high white steps and flat faces. A cat slipped
across the street; another swiftly followed it.
St. Dreot's seemed near at hand again and Ellen the cook not so far
away. Maggie felt a sudden forlornness and desolation.
"What a very quiet street!" she whispered, as though she were afraid
lest the street should hear.
They stopped before one of the flat-faced houses; Aunt Anne rang the
bell, and an old woman with a face like a lemon helped the cabman
with the boxes.
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