"Yes," said Worrall. He rather liked to stand and gaze into the distance while pretty women talked to him. And Jocelyn was very pretty.
"We live in South Kensington. Come on Sunday, won't you? 99 Peele Crescent."
"Yes," said Worrall.
On Sunday Jocelyn waited eagerly for him in the drawing–room of Peele Crescent. Her father was asleep in the library, her mother was dead; so she would have the great man to herself for an afternoon. Later she would have him for always, for she meant to marry him. And when they were married she was not so sure that they would live with the noise of the crocodile barking or coughing, or whatever it did, in their ears. She saw herself in that little house in Green Street with the noise of motor–horns and taxi–whistles to soothe her to sleep.
Yet what a man he was! What had he said to her? She went over all his words…. They were not many.
At six o'clock she was still waiting in the drawing–room at Peele Crescent….
At six–thirty Worrall Brice had got as far as Peele Place….
At six–forty–five he found himself in Radcliffe Square again….
At seven o'clock, just as he was giving himself up for lost, he met a taxi and returned to St. James's Street. He was a great traveller, but South Kensington had been too much for him.
Next week he went back unmarried to the jungle. It was the narrowest escape he had had.