“This is No. 170, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes.”

The taxi-man jerked his head to draw G.J.’s attention to the interior of the vehicle.  Christine was half on the seat and half on the floor, unconscious, with shut eyes.

Instantly G.J. was conscious of making a complete recovery from all the effects, physical and moral, of the air-raid.

“Just help me to get her out, will you?” he said in a casual tone, “and I’ll carry her upstairs.  Where did you pick the lady up?”

“Strand, sir, nearly opposite Romano’s.”

“The dickens you did!”

“Shock from air-raid, I suppose, sir.”

“Probably.”

“She did seem a little upset when she hailed me, or I shouldn’t have taken her.  I was off home, and I only took her to oblige.”

The taxi-man ran quickly round to the other side of the cab and entered it by the off-door, behind Christine.  Together the men lifted her up.

“I can manage her,” said G.J. calmly.

“Excuse me, sir, you’ll have to get hold lower down, so as her waist’ll be nearly as high as your shoulder.  My brother’s a fireman.”

“Right,” said G.J.  “By the way, what’s the fare?”

Holding Christine across his shoulder with the right arm, he unbuttoned his overcoat with his left hand and took out change from his trouser pocket for the driver.

“You might pull the door to after me,” he said, in response to the driver’s expression of thanks.

“Certainly, sir.”

The door banged.  He was alone with Christine on the long, dark, inclement stairs.  He felt the contours of her body through her clothes.  She was limp, helpless.  She was a featherweight.  She was nothing at all; inexpressibly girlish, pathetic, dear.  Never had G.J. felt as he felt then.  He mounted the stairs rather quickly, with firm, disdaining steps, and, despite his being a little out of breath, he had a tremendous triumph over the stolidity of Marthe when she answered his ring.  Marthe screamed, and in the scream readjusted her views concerning air-raids.

“It’s queer this swoon lasting such a long time!” he reflected, when Christine had been deposited on the sofa in the sitting-room, and the common remedies and tricks tried without result, and Marthe had gone into the kitchen to make hot water hotter.

He had established absolute empire over Marthe.  He had insisted on Marthe not being silly; and yet, though he had already been silly himself in his absurd speculations as to the possibility of Christine’s death, he was now in danger of being silly again.  Did ordinary swoons ever continue as this one was continuing?  Would Christine ever come out of it?  He stood with his back to the fireplace, and her head and shoulders were right under him, so that he looked almost perpendicularly down upon them.  Her face was as pale as ivory; every drop of blood seemed to have left it; the same with her neck and bosom; her limbs had dropped anyhow, in disarray; a fur jacket was untidily cast over her black muslin dress.  But her waved hair, fresh from the weekly visit of the professional coiffeur, remained in the most perfect order.