"Oh! Where are you living now—Putney?"
It may be that Louie met any slight the last word might have conveyed half-way and more. She replied, a little shortly: "No, Lavender Hill; I change at Victoria. After you——"
"Oh no—after you!"
Louie ascended; they couldn't stand on the kerb discussing points of precedence. "Let's go in front," Evie said, "and then men won't smoke on us," and they settled down.
"Well," Evie said, adjusting the apron, "and how are you?"
"Thank you," said Louie, "perfectly well."
"There's room for your parcel here. Such ages since we met! Let me see, when was it?"
They discussed when it was, and then, "And have you seen Kitty Windus lately?" Evie asked.
Since her first visit to the Hickleys' Louie had seen Kitty perhaps half-a-dozen times in all, not oftener. Kitty had been to Margate, thence to Whetstone, and after that to Alf Windus the violinist's. Louie had simply not been able to see her oftener; she had had far too much to do. And, after all, nothing (the nothing of Louie's fears and fancies) seemed to have happened. Except to herself (Louie guessed) Kitty made no mysterious allusions to black eyes. She was merely puzzled, pathetic, harmless. She had not that perilous thing, a preconceived theory into which events had a fulfilling way of dropping of themselves. So Louie replied to Evie Soames in a tone as casual as her own:
"Oh yes, I've seen her several times. Of course you heard that her engagement to Mr. Jeffries was broken off?"