F. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so.
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