After the meal, Phyllis went over to the window, drew up the blind, and amused herself, as was her frequent custom, by looking into the street.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Lucy; "any one can see right into the room."
"Why do you waste your breath, Lucy? You know it is never any good telling me not to do things, when I want to."
Gertrude, who had herself a secret, childish love for the gas-lit street, for the sight of the hurrying people, the lamps, the hansom cabs, flickering in and out the yellow haze, like so many fire-flies, took no part in the dispute, but set to work at repairing an old skirt of Phyllis's, which was sadly torn.
Meanwhile the spoilt child at the window continued her observations, which seemed to afford her considerable amusement.
"There is a light in Frank Jermyn's window—the top one," she cried; "I suppose he is dressing. He told me he had an early dance in Harley Street. I wish I were going to a dance."
There was a look of mischief in Phyllis's eyes as she looked round at Lucy, who was buried in the proof-sheets from The Woodcut.
"Phyllis, you are coughing terribly. Do come away from that draughty place," cried Gertrude, with real anxiety.
"Oh, I'm all right, Gerty. Ah, there goes Master Frank. It is wet underfoot, and he has turned up his trousers, and his pumps are bulging from his coat-pocket. I wonder how many miles a week he walks on his way to dances?"