First of all, I didn't drive him home. That
is, I did drive him home, but he didn't go inside. When I drew up outside
his house in Princes Gate, I looked around expecting to see him get out.
As he didn't move I got down and opened the door. 'Aren't you getting out
here, sir?' I said, in a soft voice. 'No,' he said. 'Drive on.' 'This is
your house, sir,' I ventured to say. 'I'm not going in,' he replied,
'drive on.' I was surprised. I thought he was the worse for drink, and
I'd never seen him that way before. But some gentlemen are so obstinate
in liquor that you can't get them to do anything except the opposite of
what you ask them. I thought I'd try and coax him. 'Better go inside,
sir,' I said. 'You'll be better off in bed.' 'Do you think I am drunk?'
he said sharply. You could have knocked me down with a feather. He was as
sober as a judge, all in a moment. 'No, sir, I didn't,' I said. 'I
wouldn't take the liberty,' I said. 'Then get back on your seat and drive
me to the Hyde Park Hotel--no, I think I'll go to Verney's. But don't go
there direct. Drive me round the Park first. I feel I want a breath of
cool air.'"
"Go on," said Crewe, in a tone which indicated approval of Taylor's
method of telling his story.
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