And it was a
magnificent day in London. The group of the two elegances
dominated by the perfection of the cabman made a striking tableau
of triumphant masculinity, content with itself, and needing
nothing.
Matthew lightly took Cyril's arm and drew him further down the
street, past the gate leading to the studio (hidden behind a
house) which Cyril rented.
"Look here, my boy," he began, "I've found your aunt."
"Well, that's very nice of you," said Cyril, solemnly. "That's a
friendly act. May I ask what aunt?"
"Mrs. Scales," said Matthew. "You know--"
"Not the--" Cyril's face changed.
"Yes, precisely!" said Matthew, feeling that he was not being
cheated of the legitimate joy caused by making a sensation.
Assuredly he had made a sensation in Victoria Grove.
When he had related the whole story, Cyril said: "Then she doesn't
know you know?"
"I don't think so. No, I'm sure she doesn't. She may guess."
"But how can you be certain you haven't made a mistake? It may be
that--"
"Look here, my boy," Matthew interrupted him. "I've not made any
mistake."
"But you've no proof."
"Proof be damned!" said Matthew, nettled. "I tell you it's HER!"
"Oh! All right! All right! What puzzles me most is what the devil
you were doing in a place like that.
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