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Gareth did not start his book that night. Kathleen was still up on his return to Pacific Villa; and, lamely, he had to explain the taxi. In their financial condition -- his yearly salary amounted to two hundred and seventy pounds -- taxicabs were extravagances to be contemplated only when matters of extreme importance were at stake. Gareth did not happen to be a liar by nature, to assert that he had felt ill; nor was he a diplomat, to have resorted to the expedient of stopping the car at the corner of the road. He said simply "I just thought I would like a drive, Kath," and waited for the storm.
She made cold reply: "It's your money, of course. I've written to Ilfracombe. Shall we go to bed now? It's late."