“That ain’t my fault,” said she.
“But you are.”
“Well, you know”—she spoke with a marked cockney accent that strangely sullied the handsome red lips—“my looking-glass tells me that—more than once a day.”
“Yes—ha, yes; of course,” he drawled, gazing at her admiringly—“of course it does. How stupid of me—how immaculately stupid! But we had better get into a hansom and have some supper somewhere, eh! Rather strenuous idea that—eh!” He haw-hawed.
She laughed, tossed her head—stopped abruptly. And he, looking at her, saw that her face was deathly white. She grasped his arm suddenly:
“Come down here,” she said hoarsely—“quick!”
She turned into the foggy blackness of a dingy street that descended to the river, walking hurriedly—and he, expostulant, followed her:
“By George—a very pretty figure,” said he. “But look here,” he added plaintively, “where are we going?... It’s getting so damned foggy I shall lose you if you hurry so, don’t you know.”
She came to a halt under a dingy gas-lamp, and faced him; and he saw that she was very beautiful. The colour had left her face. She was white as marble.
“I saw a man—I was once engaged to him—see?” she said.... “He is a dangerous man. Wait here a bit—he’ll miss us in the fog.... My Gord!” she added hoarsely, “he has followed us!”