“I really couldn’t say. The society may give the subject its serious attention soon, and if it does, I’ll endeavor to make it as hot for these ‘high-toned’ houses as for the more miserable ones.”
The reporter could have told him that the public promenades are thronged these days with females exhibiting the richest fabrics which the shops afford.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ANOTHER CLASS OF PROMENADERS.
In another of these sketches I have spoken of certain members of the female sex who spend the most of their evenings in promenading the streets. They are young and full of lusty life. I come now to another class of promenaders—the saddest class of all God’s creatures—hopeless, heartless. It is almost impossible to avoid sermonizing in dealing with this sisterhood of sin. They are treated enough to words of opprobrium and hate. Let them be spoken of here rather in pity than in anger, and when the awful lessons of their sins are ascertained and pointed out, let them sink into the obscurity out of which neither law, love, nor mercy seems sufficient to lift them.
“Good evening,” said a woman to me one night as I was going to the Parliament buildings. The voice was harsh and hoarse. She passed as close to me as possible, but her tone implied that she would not be surprised if she got no answer. I was not in a hurry and I stopped.
“Do you want to see me?” I said.
She exhibited some signs of fear now. Probably she thought I was one of the brigade of the famous police mashers.
“No, I guess not,” was the answer, as she peered inquiringly at me. “I was feeling lonesome and I just passed the time o’ day.”
“Feeling lonesome, eh; what makes you lonesome?”