“Yes. She wears them round her neck, and these—these wear always their shame,” he added, pushing gently away a woman who clutched at his arm. “Funny thing, isn’t it? What are they worth? Ten thousand pounds, very likely. A lot of money for gewgaws—to hang upon a woman’s body. Shall we ever have a revolution in London, do you think, Victor?”
“Who knows?” Macheson answered wearily. “Not a political one, perhaps, but the other might come. The sewers underneath are pretty full.”
They passed along in silence for a few minutes. Neither the drizzling rain nor the lateness of the hour could keep away that weary procession of sad, staring-eyed women, who seemed to come from every shadow, and vanish Heaven knows where. Macheson gripped his companion by the arm.
“Holderness,” he cried, “for God’s sake let’s get out of it. I shall choke presently. We’ll take a side street.”
But Holderness held his arm in a grip of iron.
“No,” he said, “these are the things which you must feel. I want you to feel them. I mean you to.”
“It’s heart-breaking, Dick.”
Holderness smiled faintly.
“I know how you feel,” he declared. “I’ve gone through it myself. You are a Christian, aren’t you—almost an orthodox Christian?”
“I am not sure!”