"Green, with white lace on it," he continued, with nervous emphasis.
Suddenly Cuckoo said:
"White; no, it was yellow."
Mr. Heywood was delighted at this evidence of recollection.
"So it was, so it was," he said. "But what I wanted to say was, that I'm sorry to see you here still."
"Eh?"
"Sorry to see you here. I'm married, you know, turned over a new leaf, with two children of my own, and come to see the error of my ways. I hoped as you—"
Cuckoo walked on.
Her dream of despair was not to be broken by Mr. Heywood and his new-found respectability. Fate shattered it to fragments in very different fashion. A sudden thrill ran through the crowd, coming from a distance. People began to pause, to turn their heads, to murmur to one another, then to press forward in one direction, craning their necks as if to catch sight of something. The street was almost blocked, and Cuckoo was entangled in this seething excitement, of which at first she could not divine the cause. Presently she heard shouts. The crowd swayed. Then a man's fierce yell cut the general murmur with the sharpness of a knife. Suddenly Cuckoo's dream fled. She pushed her way forward in the direction of the cry; she struggled; she crept under arms and glided through narrow spaces with extraordinary dexterity and swiftness.
"He's mad," she heard a voice say.