‘Where are you going to leave us?’ Nancy inquired of her brother.
‘Charing Cross, or somewhere about there.’
‘Keep by me till then.’
Barmby was endeavouring to secure her companionship. He began to cross the bridge at her side, but Nancy turned and bade him attend upon Miss. Morgan, saying that she wished to talk with her brother. In this order they moved towards Parliament Street, where the crowd began to thicken.
‘Now let us decide upon our route,’ exclaimed Barmby, with the air of a popular leader planning a great demonstration. ‘Miss. Lord, we will be directed by your wishes. Where would you like to be when the lighting-up begins?’
‘I don’t care. What does it matter? Let us go straight on and see whatever comes in our way.’
‘That’s the right spirit! Let us give ourselves up to the occasion! We can’t be wrong in making for Trafalgar Square. Advance!’
They followed upon a group of reeling lads and girls, who yelled in chorus the popular song of the day, a sentimental one as it happened—
‘Do not forget me, Do not forget me, Think sometimes of me still’—
Nancy was working herself into a nervous, excited state. She felt it impossible to walk on and on under Barmby’s protection, listening to his atrocious commonplaces, his enthusiasms of the Young Men’s Debating Society. The glow of midsummer had entered into her blood; she resolved to taste independence, to mingle with the limitless crowd as one of its units, borne in whatever direction. That song of the streets pleased her, made sympathetic appeal to her; she would have liked to join in it.