It was the teapot that had saved him,—­that blessed teapot that was always protruding itself benevolently into his life.  Mr. Twist had identified himself with it, and it had instantly saved him.  In the shelter of his teapot Mr. Twist could go anywhere and do anything in America.  Everybody had it.  Everybody knew it.  It was as pervasive of America as Ford’s cars, but cosily, quietly pervasive.  It was only less visible because it stayed at home.  It was more like a wife than Ford’s cars were.  From a sinner caught red-handed, Mr. Twist, its amiable creator, leapt to the position of one who can do no wrong, for he had not only placed his teapot between himself and judgment but had accompanied his proofs of identity by a suitable number of dollar bills, pressed inconspicuously into the official’s conveniently placed hand.

The twins found themselves being treated with distinction.  They were helped into the taxi by the official himself, and what was to happen to them next was left entirely to the decision and discretion of Mr. Twist—­a man so much worried that at that moment he hadn’t any of either.  He couldn’t even answer when asked where the taxi was to go to.  He had missed his train, and he tried not to think of his mother’s disappointment, the thought was so upsetting.  But he wouldn’t have caught it if he could, for how could he leave these two poor children?

“I’m more than ever convinced,” he said, pushing his hat still further off his forehead, and staring at the back of the Twinkler trunks piled up in front of him next to the driver, while the disregarded official at the door still went on asking him where he wished the cab to go to, “that children should all have parents.”

CHAPTER XI

The hotel they were finally sent to by the official, goaded at last by Mr. Twist’s want of a made-up mind into independent instructions to the cabman, was the Ritz.  He thought this very suitable for the evolver of Twist’s Non-Trickler, and it was only when they were being rushed along at what the twins, used to the behaviour of London taxis and not altogether unacquainted with the prudent and police-supervised deliberation of the taxis of Berlin, regarded as a skid-collision-and-mutilation-provoking speed, that a protest from Anna-Rose conveyed to Mr. Twist where they were heading for.

“An hotel called Ritz sounds very expensive,” she said.  “I’ve heard Uncle Arthur talk of one there is in London and one there is in Paris, and he said that only damned American millionaires could afford to stay in them.  Anna-Felicitas and me aren’t American millionaires—­”

“Or damned,” put in Anna-Felicitas.

“—­but quite the contrary,” said Anna-Rose, “hadn’t you better take us somewhere else?”

“Somewhere like where the Brontes stayed in London,” said Anna-Felicitas harping on this idea.  “Where cheapness is combined with historical associations.”