They were laughing and changing words with all sorts of young men—counter-jumpers and horsey men—but for him they had nothing but brandy cold and monosyllables. He was beginning to get irritated with woman; but the sunlight outside and two cold brandies inside restored his happy humour, and the idea of lunch was now moving before him, luring him on.
Thinking thus, he was advancing not towards luncheon but towards Fate.
At Piccadilly Circus there was a crowd round an omnibus. There generally are crowds round omnibuses just here, but this was a special crowd, having for its core an irate bus conductor and a pretty girl.
Oh, such a pretty girl! Spring itself, dark-haired, dark-eyed, well dressed, but with just that touch which tells of want of affluence. She fascinated Simon as a flower fascinates a bee.
"But, sir, I tell you I have lost my purse; some pocket-picker has taken it. I shall be pleased to tell you where I live and reward you if you come for the money. My name is Cerise Rossignol." This, with just a trace of foreign accent.
"I've been done twice this week by that game," said the brutal conductor, speaking, however, the truth. "Come, search in your glove, you'll find it."
Simon broke in.
"How much?" said he.
"Tuppence," said the conductor. Then the gods that preside over youth might have observed this new Andromeda, released at the charge of Tuppence, wandering off with her saviour and turning to him a face filled with gratitude.
They were going in the direction of Leicester Square.