They descended. The omnibus passed on, and they stood hesitating, a little lost, but greatly amused.
"Here it is!" she exclaimed. "And a street arab in the very act of pumping! Why, it's real water."
They contemplated it for a moment or two. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked.
"Thrilling," she admitted. "All pumps are interesting—in these days of universal taps. But look at those warehouses opposite, beyond the hoarding. Aren't they fascinating?"
"I believe the river lies beyond." Probably no existence had been less intertwined with the City of London than his, but he remembered the immediate neighbourhood pretty well from ancient wanderings, and he told her as an interesting fact that Mark Lane and Mincing Lane lay thereabouts.
"I think I have heard of them." Her face lighted with the pleasure of recognition. "Indeed, I'm sure I've seen them mentioned in the newspapers."
He tried to plumb her knowledge, but found no deeps. She knitted her brows prettily, or at least he imagined she did, under her veil. "A sort of Latin Quarter—an artist's colony?" she hazarded. "No, wait a bit, there was a wealthy, humdrum sort of man I once met, and everybody whispered he came out of Mincing Lane. He was not artistic. I give it up."
"He imported tea?"
"That's not unlikely," she agreed.
"That's what Mincing Lane is for. And Mark Lane is for corn and produce."