To-night they would walk and sit on the parade till supper time, then go to some coffee-house, and wind up at a music-hall. It was a gay programme and they discussed it happily, glanced at the passers-by, inspected the empty bandstand, and finally sat down on one of the seats to watch the fishing-boats trim their lamps in the amethyst fog of the sea. For some time they talked about the terrible licking the United had given Rye, arguing about this or that player, and speculating as to what would be the Club's fate at Hythe next week.
It was David who drew William's attention to the woman sitting at the other end of their seat. David piqued himself on his knowledge of the world.
"She's a—you know," he said.
William peeped round his brother's shoulder.
"How can you tell?"
"Why, you kid, it's as plain as the nose on your face—look at her paint."
Bill looked, his eyes opening wider than ever. She certainly was a disreputable female, or there was no judging by appearances. She wore a big frowsy hat trimmed with roses and ears of corn, under which her thick black hair was held up by several tawdry pins; her face was more lavishly than artistically adorned with rouge and blanc de perle, and she pulled a cape of lavender velvet closely round her shoulders as if she were cold—which might well have been, for, as far as they could see, her bodice consisted almost entirely of lace.
"It's early for her to be prowling," said the man of the world. "I reckon she's having just a breath of fresh air before she starts work."
"Where'll she go then?" asked Billy.
"Oh, to the more crowded streets, round about the pubs and that."