He was still laughing when they reached Tottenham Court Road; and, as they passed the Horse Shoe, a voice, which Lily seemed to remember, called to them from behind:
“Hullo, Clifton!”
Pa turned his head in surprise:
“Hullo, Trampy!”
For he recognized him at once, though he was much changed. Besides, he knew him to be in London. But it was a prosperous and gorgeous Trampy, quite unlike the old days; and forthwith Trampy explained: a champagne supper last night, just come from the bar; glass of Vichy water, you know. Huge success in London. Girls, by Jove! And then, pretending not to know Lily:
“I congratulate you, Clifton; what a dear little wife!”
Pa, greatly amused, protested: not his wife, no, his Lily! Then Trampy went into ecstasies: how pretty she had grown, one of the handsomest girls in London, sure! And in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland! And in all the British dominions beyond the seas, by Jove! And what a change since Mexico! She was a woman now, a peach, a regular peach!
Lily seemed fascinated by Trampy, examined him, his shiny hat, his gold rings, his patent-leather shoes. A swell, Trampy, a toff, a gentleman like those in the front boxes.
“Yes, Lily,” said Trampy, guessing her thoughts, “yes, that’s the way it is; one’s not always hard up. I’ve struck oil since leaving America. Heaps of money! Eh, what!” he continued, offering Clifton an expensive cigar. “You wouldn’t have thought it, would you, when you left me stranded in Mexico? That was a nice dirty trick you played me! Come and have a drain, old man, to drink Miss Lily’s health and show there’s no ill feeling!”
“No, another time,” said Clifton, vexed at this recollection of Mexico, now that he was the established owner of a troupe, a man whose word was as good as gold. “I’m in a hurry to get home: a very nice home, Trampy, a real good one. Come and see us some day. Au revoir.”