"There was a time when Tattie was among little girls who walked two and two in Kensington."
"Really? Do you know that hurts, rather? I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry," sighed Rosalind. "But her heart's sweet," she added; "it's only the bloom that has gone." She smiled. "Clap your hands! She's my pal—you've got to applaud her."
"She's very good," he said, applauding. "I thought she was going to do a flower song? But I like that one. Isn't it pretty? I like the way it goes."
"Yes, rag-time—all against the beat. Don't hum it out of tune!" she said plaintively. "She's going to do the flower song next. By-the-bye, I may have to introduce you to some of the girls. What shall I call you?"
"My name," Conrad answered deferentially, "is 'Warrener.'"
She bent her head;
"Thank you," said Lady Darlington.
When the concert was over he walked with her as far as Mrs. Cheney's. Tattie of course was with them. At the foot of the steps Tattie shook hands with him and went indoors, and he remained a minute saying 'good night' to Rosalind. The other girl might well have heard all they said, but the minute had charm to him because the other girl had left them. It implied something. And underneath, to both these shuttlecocks of temperament, there was another charm, not defined yet—to be savoured in the first moments of solitude—the charm of recapturing a mood of years ago. At a doorstep, late: "You look tired?" "Oh, it's nothing." A pause. "I shall see you to-morrow?" "Yes, come in to tea." A whiff of the fragrance of his youth, a touch of the sentimentality of her girlhood, idealised Corporation Road as they parted in the fog.
"I wish it were to-morrow! ... Good night."