One other student was present. Peacefully he slumbered by George's side until the ring of a dropped forceps awakened him. Noting the cause, “Clumsy beast,” said this Mr. Franklyn; and to George: “Come on, Leicester; my slumber is broken. Let's go for a stroll up West.”
In Oxford Street a pretty waitress in a tea-shop drew Mr. Franklyn's eye; a drop of rain whacked his nose. He winked the eye; wiped the nose. “Tea,” said he; “it is going to rain.”
He addressed the pretty waitress: “I have no wish to seem inquisitive, but which table do you attend?”
The girl jerked her chin: “What's that to you?”
“So much,” Mr. Franklyn earnestly told her, “that, until I know, here, beautiful but inconvenient, in the doorway I stand.”
“Well, all of 'em.” She whisked away.
“You're badly snubbed, Franklyn,” George said. “This rain is nothing.”
A summer shower crashed down as he spoke; a mob of shoppers, breathless for shelter, drove them inwards.
“George,” said Mr. Franklyn, seating himself, “your base mind thinks I have designs on this girl. I grieve at so distorted a fancy. The child says prettily that she attends 'all of 'em.' It is a gross case of overwork into which I feel it my duty more closely to inquire.”
George laughed. “Do you always spend your afternoons like this?”