CHAPTER III
With the drawing in of dusk a thin mist stole up from the river and stealthily crept through the streets and lanes of Chelsea. It was not yet five o'clock, but on an afternoon in the depth of winter the little touch of fog converted dusk to darkness. The mist was not thick, but very cold and clammy, and in the zigzag lane the lamps were blurred and the shadows deep. Two people left a bus in the King's Road and turned down it. He was broad-shouldered, and swung along with a fine decided stride: she was trim and erect, and very quietly clad; her face was fresh and bright, a smile haunted her eyes, and her straight little nose seemed to breathe independence.
"The air is beastly damp," said he. "I wish you'd let me bring you in a cab."
"Nonsense, Lucas," she answered stoutly; "we neither of us can afford it. You must learn to be sensible."
"But, my dear girl, I tell you I'm beginning to make money now."
"Well, don't begin to spend it; and then perhaps you may have a little in the bank in a year or two."
"A year or two!" he exclaimed; "I'll have enough in six months to—"