She tried to frown, and gave a meaning glance in the direction of the occupied little girl.
“I shall be dreamin’ of ’em for weeks,” he whispered earnestly. “I’m not one to take much notice of females in a general way—a woman hater; that’s what they call me in the porters’ room—but as I was going to say, I can quite well imagine a chap like myself, going on for years just racketing about and then coming across a pair of eyes like yours and saying to himself, ‘Swan, old man, it’s time you began to take matters seriously!’”
“Martha, my dear, go on with your work. Me and Mr. Swan are only talking business!”
“You must have been a decent-looking girl in your day,” Swan went on. “Of course, time doesn’t stand still with any of us, and very few can weather the storm, as you may say, without showing some signs of wear and tear.”
“I’ve had more of a struggle than most,” she said, glancing at the mirror.
“You want somebody to take you out for walks, and now and again an evening at the theatre. Sometimes I get pit orders for two, and I tear ’em up, because,” said Swan, with a touch of melancholy, “simply because I can’t get no one to go with.”
“That is a shame!” she cried. “Surely your landlady—”
“You know what landladies are,” he interposed. “Always on the make. So long as they can over-charge you, that’s all they want. I don’t mean anything personal,” he added quickly, and rose from the easy chair. “It’s a fine moonlight night,” he went on; “I shall just take a turn round and get a mouthful of fresh air.”
“I haven’t been outside the front door to-day.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, “a few houses off.”