Across their gaze swept out of the bawling tumult of the night sundry wreaths of fog, torn from the mists that rose from the river hard by.
On the steps, under the classic portals, stood Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, with Quogge Myre and another; and, blowing the cigarette smoke through his nose, where he stood magnificent above the people, Ffolliott was in a stream of languid babble upon the strange fancy that took people to sit through the gloom of a tragedy at considerable personal discomfort and expense “sitting in a dull hole of a place, watching people pretendin’ to be dead and that sort of rot,” when gayer wits were being fascinated by the movements of women’s legs in a good break-down at a musical comedy, or “havin’ a good hearty laugh” at the comicalities of the latest comic craze at the music-halls. Thus P. W. Ffolliott—when his eyes were caught by the bold inviting eyes of a handsome young woman that passed.
“Damned pretty woman!” he drawled—“I’m off. Ta-ta, Myre! I suppose you’ll want me to meet you at that other dead-house to-morrow, eh? All right. I’ll be there. Good-night.”
He waved a gay salute, and was gone, disappearing into the bustling throng of the street.
The girl pretended to hurry, but Ffolliott, elbowing his way through the moving crowd, soon overtook her. She was pleased to be seen with a gentleman of fashion. She was also a little frightened at the insistence of his admiration.
She lifted her skirts above her ankles and picked her way daintily across the Strand, through the riot of passing vehicles and bawling cads, walking serenely amidst the roar of the bewildering traffic.
He kept by her side.
She reached the pavement, and turned towards Charing Cross.
“By jove,” said he—“you are a stunning pretty girl.”
She laughed airily.