“Good night, Madame Elena,” they chorussed politely.
“Which is your way, dear?” inquired Gina, who called everyone “dear” without discrimination.
“Right across the Park. I generally walk,” said Lydia.
“Rotten to be so far off. I live miles out, too, right the way to Mornington Crescent. I’ll walk with you, if you like. The air’ll do my head good, and I may as well get in at Oxford Circus as anywhere else.”
“Have you a headache?” said Lydia sympathetically.
“I should think I have! Why, I’ve been howling, on and off, since five o’clock. I daresay you think I’m a fool,” said Gina dolorously.
“No, of course I don’t. I’m so sorry for you.”
“Thanks, dear. I don’t generally say much about things when I feel them,” said Miss Ryott pensively, “but I don’t mind talking to you, between ourselves, like. Now, Rosie Graham—she’s the sarcastic sort—or tries to be. I could never let myself go in front of that girl——”
Gina paused, expressively enough, in lieu of seeking in the barren fields of the shop-girl’s range of imagery.
“I know what you mean,” said Lydia. She had long ago found out the incalculable value of this sympathetic, and entirely non-committal, form of words.