"No." This is a temporary setback, but they ask if we mind their walking along a bit with us. We don't, and we walk along towards the Ritz. They are giggling, and before long I am recognised. They are embarrassed.
They look down at their shabby little feet where ill-fitting shoes run over at the heels. Their cheap little cotton suits class them even low in their profession, though their youth is a big factor toward their potential rise when they have become hardened and their mental faculties have become sharpened in their eternal battles with men. Then men will come to them.
Knowing my identity, they are on their good behaviour. No longer are we prospects. We are true adventure for them this night. Their intimacy has left them and in its place there appears a reserve which is attractive even in its awkwardness.
The conversation becomes somewhat formal. And we are nearing the hotel, where we must leave them. They are very nice and charming now, and are as timid and reserved as though they had just left a convent.
They talk haltingly of the pictures they have seen, shyly telling how they loved me in "Shoulder Arms," while one of them told how she wept when she saw "The Kid" and how she had that night sent some money home to a little kid brother who was in school and staying there through her efforts in London.
The difference in them seems so marked when they call me Mr. Chaplin and I recall how they had hailed us as "Hello, boys." Somehow I rather resent the change. I wish they would be more intimate in their conversation. I would like to get their viewpoint. I want to talk to them freely. They are so much more interesting than most of the people I meet.
But there is a barrier. Their reserve stays. I told them that I was sure they were tired and gave them cab fare.
One of their number speaks for the trio.
"Thanks, Mr. Chaplin, very much. I could do with this, really. I was broke, honest. Really, this comes in very handy."
They could not quite understand our being nice and sympathetic.