"It is useless to think of sleeping anywhere," Connie said. Her face was pale and downcast, all the colour had gone out of her eyes. Mary had not before seen her friend on the verge of despondency, and the knowledge spurred her to new efforts.
"Let us go for a walk before the place gets hot and stuffy and full of struggling humanity. A London crowd always makes me so sad--it is awful to think that every man and woman streaming past you is engaged in the struggle for bread."
"Come out of this," Mary said hoarsely. "Let us feel the sunshine. This is heart-breaking, nerve-destroying work, but I am not sorry that I came. Let us go and watch the sun rise, and if there is any place where we can get something to eat----"
There was, at the end of the Embankment, a coffee stall, the leaden-eyed proprietor of which regarded the girls without emotion. He had served all classes of customers in his time, and these well-dressed girls, with an unmistakable air of class about them, inspired him with no curiosity. He filled up the thick cups of muddy coffee and cut the stodgy bread and the debatable butter. It was hideous stuff altogether, but Mary was astonished to find with what zest she was devouring it. A flashy woman, terrible in her cheap finery, staggered up and demanded tea. A man, unmistakably a gentleman, with a well-cut suit of clothes, partook of cocoa and a slice of bread. His coat collar was turned up, and Mary surmised that this was to hide the absence of a shirt. The girl was learning her lesson with terrible swiftness. Another man, with a bag in his hand, hurried up and breathlessly asked for tea. His face was white and pink by turns, he looked about him a furtive kind of way. From behind the barrow a powerful figure shot out and grabbed at the shoulder of the man with the bag. The latter showed fight for a moment, then his white face broke into a profuse shower of moisture.
"Better come quietly," the powerful man said. "You can have a cab if you like, though it does not matter much at this time of day. You've given me a long chase."
The two vanished in the direction of the Strand, where now the houses and spires were all golden in the purple mists. Mary shuddered.
"What does that mean?" she asked. "Was--was he some criminal?"
"That is it," Connie explained quietly. "And the other man was a detective. Oh, it is a horrible place, this London, if you come to see it from the underside. I long for millions of money to turn this city into a paradise. You think I am always cheerful and careless, but my two years here have left a mark upon me that I will never get rid of. Let us walk along the Embankment as far as Westminster, and then strike West for the Park. I feel a perfect longing for flowers and green grass. We will go through Park Lane, and speculate as to what the millionaires there are dreaming about--the people who have a hundred times as much as they can spend, and are yet greedy for more. Oh, my dear, if you only knew how tired I am, so utterly worn out."
Connie sat down on a seat on the Embankment and burst into tears.