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No doubt I should have said much more to the gentleman, when what do you think happens why, Fauny herself comes up and tells me to take him. "I'm sure we should like some one to do the same for us if no taxis were about," says she very sweetly; "please take the gentleman, Britten, and then you can go home." Well, I sat there as amazed a man as any in the Haymarket.
We picked him up outside the Carlton Hotel, Fauny and me, three nights before "The Boys of Boulogne" went into the country, and "The Girls" from some other shop took their place.
I have driven plenty of pretty girls in my life; but I don't know that the prettiest wasn't Fauny Dartel, of the Apollo.
This story isn't about her except in a way so it doesn't much matter; but when I first knew Fauny she was getting thirty bob a week in "The Boys of Boulogne," and, as she paid me three pound ten every Saturday, and the car cost her some four hundred per annum to run, she must have been of a saving disposition. Certainly a better mistress no man wants not Lal Britten, which is yours truly.
I drove her for five months, and never had a word with her. Then a man, who said he was a bailiff, came and took her car away, and there was no money for me on the Saturday. So I suppose she married into the peerage. My story isn't about Fauny Dartel, though it's got to do with her. It's about a man who didn't know who he was at least, he said so and couldn't tell you why he did it.
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