So much for Mr. Luke Shooter.
Many of the employés spent the latter half of the day in the City of Pleasure, which was now the rage, the craze, and the vogue of London, and among these were the twin sisters, Pauline and Rosie Dartmouth. Pauline and Rosie were typists in the house of Shooters. Their age was twenty-six. They were tall, and rather slim; only Rosie, the younger, was not quite so slim as Pauline. Pauline was dark; Rosie was inclined to fairness. In the partnership between them Pauline supplied the common sense, while Rosie supplied the gaiety; each supplied a considerable amount of beauty and charm, and a sum of thirty-five shillings a week. It is obvious that on a total income of three pounds ten a week, or a hundred and eighty-two pounds a year, two girls living together in a small flat, with sense and gaiety and full opportunity for acquiring ribbons at wholesale prices, may have a very good time and cut quite a pretty figure in the world. And this Pauline and Rosie certainly did manage to do.
They were orphans, and had been for a very long time.
They came to the City by the Tube from their flat in Shepherd’s Bush, and Pauline put a florin down for the two of them at the northern entrance gates, just as though they had been ordinary visitors; as, in fact, at that moment they were. A few persons noticed them, but quite casually, and only because they were dressed—and well dressed—almost exactly alike. There are so many beautiful young women in London that Londoners seldom turn their heads to look at one. It is left to Frenchmen to rave about the blond charm of the Anglo-Saxon “mees.” What exuberant adjectives the Frenchman would find to express his delight if he penetrated further north, into Staffordshire, Lancashire, and Yorkshire, where ugly faces and bad complexions are practically unknown, it is impossible to guess.
The City of Pleasure met with the entire approval of Pauline and Rosie. As soon as they found themselves in the Central Way they began to get enthusiastic. The sun was shining, the flags were flying, the cable-cars were gliding, and thousands and thousands of visitors made gay the City. They had never before seen anything like the Central Way, with its colonnades, and its shops, and its coloured throngs, and its soaring, gleaming, white architecture.
“It’s just as good as being abroad, isn’t it?” said Rosie.
“Better,” said Pauline.
But then they had never been beyond Boulogne.
They stopped at shop windows, as much to regard jewellery and knick-knacks, as to observe whether their frocks and chiffons and hats were in that immaculate order which a sunny day and the presence of one’s fellow-creatures demand. It may be mentioned here that their dresses were of dark blue, with blue belts, bunchy knots of white muslin at the throat, white gloves, brown glacé kid boots, and large blue-and-black picture hats. It was plain, but it was perfect, and they knew it was perfect. The consciousness of perfection enabled them to sustain the judicial gaze of other women, and the passing glance of innumerable young men, with a supercilious stare. In truth they were secretly wild with the joy of life, and the attractiveness of the City, and the sensations of their holiday, but they did not show it. Oh, no! They did not show it. They were prim to the most advanced degree, as became them.
“I should just love to go on one of those dear little cable-cars!” exclaimed Rosie.