We drove down the Strand at a leisurely pace.  I passed through a phase of agonised thought.  By my side was a helpless, homeless, friendless, penniless young woman, as beautiful as a goddess and as empty-minded as a baby.  What in the world could I do with her?  I looked at her in despair.  She met my glance with a contented smile; just as if we were old acquaintances and I were taking her out to dinner.  The unfamiliar roar and bustle of London impressed her no more than it would have impressed a little dog who had found a kind master.

“Suppose I gave you some money and put you down here and left you?” I inquired.

“I should die,” she answered, fatalistically.  “Or, perhaps, I should find another kind gentleman.”

“I wonder if you have such a thing as a soul,” said I.

She plucked at her gown.  “I have only this—­and it is very ugly,” she remarked again.  “I should like a pink dress.”

We crossed Trafalgar Square, and I saw by Big Ben that it was a quarter to six.  I could not drive through London with her for an indefinite period.  Besides, my half past seven dinner awaited me.

Why, oh, why has Judith gone to Paris?  Had she been in town I could have shot Carlotta into Tottenham Mansions, and gone home to my dinner and Cristoforo da Costa with a light heart.  Judith would have found Carlotta vastly entertaining.  She would have washed her body and analysed her temperament.  But Judith was in retreat with Delphine Carrere, and has left me alone to bear the responsibilities of life—­and Carlotta.

The cab slowly mounted Waterloo Place.  I had thought of my aunts as possible helpers, and rejected the idea.  I had thought of a police station, a hotel, my lawyers (too late), a furnished lodging, a hospital.  My mind was an aching blank.

“Where do you live?” asked Carlotta.

I looked at her and groaned.  It was the only solution.  “Up Regent’s Park way,” I replied, aware that she was none the wiser for the information.

I gave the address to the cabman through the trap-door in the roof.

“I’m going to take you home with me for to-night,” I said, severely.  “I have an excellent French housekeeper who will look after your comfort.  And to-morrow if that infernal young scoundrel of a lover of yours is not found, it will not be the fault of the police force of Great Britain.”

She laid her grubby little hand on mine.  It was very soft and cool.

“You are cross with me.  Why?”

I removed her hand.

“You mustn’t do that again,” said I.  “No; I am not in the least cross with you.  But I hope you are aware that this event is of an unprecedented character.”

“What is an unprecedented character?” she asked, stumbling over the long words.

“A thing that has never happened before and I devoutly hope will not happen again.”

Her face was turned to me.  The lower lip trembled a little.  The dog-look came into those wonderful eyes.