The extreme bustle and movement of the market was almost at its height when she arrived. An eager hum of busy voices pervaded the place. The merchants were busy, not only selling their flowers, but eating excellent breakfasts of coffee, poached eggs, bacon, and other delicacies, which were supplied to them by waiters from neighbouring restaurants.
The strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat, which, early as it was, was beginning to be felt through the glass roof, would have made the place almost intolerable to any one less acclimatised to this sort of thing than Jill.
Some of the flower girls looked already spent and tired. They were, for the most part, an unkempt-looking lot, their hair untidy, their dress exhibiting the extreme of dowdiness; the shabbiest hats adorned their rough heads; old shawls, greasy with wear, and dull from long exposure to weather, protected their ample shoulders. Their dresses were almost ragged, their feet slipshod and untidy.
Youth was a misnomer for most of them, and beauty was not to be found in their ranks. They knew good flowers, however, and chaffered eagerly, and conducted their marketing on the most approved business principles.
Jill was such a contrast to the other flower girls—her beauty was so remarkable, her dress so picturesque as she stood under one of the big palm-trees, that she resembled a tropical flower herself. She was looked at with envy by one or two of the girls, and with marked admiration by several young costermongers, who would have given a good deal for a nod or smile from so lovely a girl.
As a rule she had a pleasant, friendly way with her, never allowing familiarities, but taking good-natured badinage and jest in the spirit in which they were meant.
To-day, however, she saw none of the faces, heard none of the comments, returned none of the murmured greetings.
She waited for her turn to be served, as motionless almost as a statue, and it was not until a rather rough voice sounded in her ears that she awoke to the full difficulties of her present position.
“Can I sarve you, miss?” said a flower merchant. “I ’as got some beautiful rose-buds this morning, and a great supply of water-lilies. You come and see ’em, they’re just your style.”
This flower merchant’s name was Silas Lynn. He was a heavy-built man, with a powerful face, a rough shock of hair, and small, deeply set eyes. His mouth was coarse, his hands and feet enormous. He owned a cottage and a couple of acres of ground in Kent, and brought his flowers and fruit daily to the market, transacting all his business himself, and allowing no middleman to interfere with him.