“Yes, I am,” Peter said, “a bit depressed.”
“I know. I'm often that way myself. We all catch it. Come home and have a bit of supper. That'll cheer you up.”
“No, thanks,” said Peter politely. “I must get back to my own place in a minute.”
“Well,” said the lady. “Please yourself, and I'll have another drink if you don't very much mind.”
It was whilst he was ordering another drink that he came out of his own thoughts and considered her.
“That's right,” she said smiling, “have a good look. My name's Rose Bennett. Here's my card. Perhaps you'd like to come and have tea with me one day.”
She gave him a very dirty card on which was written “Miss Rose Bennett, 4 Annton Street, Portland Place.”
“You're Cornish,” he suddenly said, looking at her.
She moved her soiled gloves up and down the little table—“Well, what if I am?” she said defiantly, not looking at him.
“I knew it,” said Peter triumphantly, “the way you rolled your r's—”