They passed down the long, narrow street, with its dingy foreign cafés and shops scarcely one of which seemed to be English. The people who thronged the pavements were of a new race to John, swarthy, a little furtive, a class of foreigner seldom seen except in alien lands. Men and women in all stages of dishabille were leaning out of the windows or standing on the doorsteps. The girls whom they met occasionally—young women of all ages, walking arm in arm, with shawls on their heads in place of hats—laughed openly in John's face.
"Conquests everywhere he goes!" Louise sighed. "We shall never keep him, Sophy!"
"We have him for this evening, at any rate," Sophy replied contentedly; "and he hasn't spent all his fortune yet. I am not at all sure that I shall not hint at supper when we come out of the Palace."
"No hint will be necessary," John promised. "I feel the gnawings of hunger already."
"A millionaire's first night in London!" Sophy exclaimed. "I think I shall write it up for the Daily Mail."
"A pity he fell into bad hands so quickly," Louise laughed. "Here we are! Stalls, please, Mr. Millionaire. I wouldn't be seen to-night in the seats of the mighty."
John risked a reproof, however, and was fortunate enough to find a disengaged box.
"The tone of the evening," Louise grumbled, as she settled herself down comfortably, "is lost. This is the most expensive box in the place."
"You could restore it by eating an orange," Sophy suggested.
"Or even chocolates," John ventured, sweeping most of the contents of an attendant's tray onto the ledge of the box.