Myre was uneasy, feeling he had not been wholly secure, when all eyes turned upon the entry into the café of a very beautiful young woman.
She walked to a small table and sat down.
Myre at once became hysterical; and proceeded to embarrass the girl with his vulgar eyes.
She ordered some coffee of the waiter, and, fretted by the admiring stare of these gentlemen, soon rose from the table, shortened her skirts above her dainty ankles, and went out into the night.
Myre, offended by the girl’s ignoring, said:
“The amateur is sapping the arts of all strength. The county gentry are destroying painting and the drama. That woman is an exquisite stick on the stage—she is connected with a peer.”
“Not by marriage, I suppose,” said a handsome youth flippantly; and rising from his chair with Byronic gloom, he put on his silk hat—“I must follow her; she is very beautiful.”
He followed her.
When he was gone, the pimply young man leaned over to Noll, and said with hushed admiration:
“Bartholomew Doome—the wickedest man in London.”