"No. Not by Piccadilly, Henrietta," said I.
"And why not Piccadilly, for goodness' sake?" said Henrietta.
Could I tell her? Could I confess to the gloomy presentiment that
overshadowed me? Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.
"I don't like Piccadilly, Henrietta."
"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and the long rows of lamps in
Piccadilly after dark are beautiful. I _will_ go to Piccadilly!"
Of course we went. It was a pleasant night, and there were numbers of
people in the streets. It was a brisk night, but not too cold, and not
damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best of all nights--FOR THE
PURPOSE.
As we passed the garden wall of the Royal Palace, going up Grosvenor
Place, Henrietta murmured:
"I wish I was a Queen!"
"Why so, Henrietta?"
"I would make _you_ Something," said she, and crossed her two hands on my
arm, and turned away her head.
Judging from this that the softer sentiments alluded to above had begun
to flow, I adapted my conduct to that belief. Thus happily we passed on
into the detested thoroughfare of Piccadilly. On the right of that
thoroughfare is a row of trees, the railing of the Green Park, and a fine
broad eligible piece of pavement.
"Oh my!" cried Henrietta presently. "There's been an accident!"
I looked to the left, and said, "Where, Henrietta?"
"Not there, stupid!" said she.
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