“Oh, were you! Why not take me along too?” he suggested, looking down at me.
Well! Why shouldn’t he realize in what sort of places these machines called working-girls live? He’d heard about the lawns and gardens, and so forth, of my old home. Let him see the change I’d had before—well, before that first interview in his office. Then there was Cicely. Yes, when I left her she was still rather “difficult” about my engagement—rather given to unspoken hopes that I wasn’t doing it for the money. Let her see that my (official) fiancé was quite a human sort of young man—the sort that some girls really might get engaged to without a thought of his income!
“My chum is a very pretty girl,” said I; “she’s worth looking at——”
“Fair?”
“No, glorious red hair.”
“Well, take me along and let me look at it!” he urged boyishly; and presently we were speeding along down the Embankment towards Marconi Mansions.
I had my latch-key in my vanity-bag. I opened the door at the top of the many stone steps and led the way into the passage, which seemed about as light and wide as a good-sized drainpipe after that airy, tiled vestibule at The Lawn. Meaning to take Cicely by surprise, I quietly walked into our small front sitting-room.
But it was Cicely who took me by surprise.
She had, already, a visitor for tea.