Peace and Kempshead passed into Windmill-street, and in a few seconds were at the corner of the Haymarket.
The throngs of persons who were assembled here and in the adjacent streets seemed to Peace to be almost incredible. It appeared as if all the women in London had, by common consent, assembled in this quarter of the town.
It is not possible to convey to the minds of those of our readers who never witnessed the night scenes in this locality, some twenty or five-and-twenty years ago, the appearance it presented.
Women dressed in the height of fashion, many of them being possessed of a rare order of beauty; languid swells, sporting and betting men, together with others of a still less reputable character, congregated together in one heterogeneous throng.
Anyone seeing these assemblies for the first time would naturally come to the conclusion that the metropolis was a city devoted to nothing but pleasure.
Peace was astounded—as well he might be. He had heard of these gatherings, had seen a good deal of provincial life, but the reality far exceeded any description that had been given him.
“My word!” said he to Kempshead, “London is a place. What on earth brings all these people here?”
His companion shrugged his shoulders.
“It is always like this, every night the same, that’s all I know. It’s a promenade—a sort of carnival; but let us go down the Haymarket.”
The two companions threaded their way through the throng of people. At about half-way down the street a still denser crowd was collected. From this proceeded at intervals cheers and loud peals of laughter.