“I hope not,” said Miss Wheeler, glancing up at a sky which was absolutely cloudless.
“So bad for ladies’ dresses,” continued the mate.
“What is?” enquired Miss Wheeler, who had covered some distance since the last remark.
“Rain,” said the mate, quite freshly. “I don’t think we shall have any, though.”
Miss Wheeler whose life had been passed in a neighbourhood in which there was only one explanation for such conduct, concluded that he had been drinking, and, closing her lips tightly, said no more until they reached the theatre.
“Oh, they’re going in,” she said, quickly; “we shall get a bad seat.”
“Hurry up,” cried Flower, beckoning.
“I’ll pay,” whispered the mate.
“No, I will,” said Flower. “Well, you pay for one and I’ll pay for one, then.”
He pushed his way to the window and bought a couple of pit-stalls; the mate, who had not consulted him, bought upper-circles, and, with a glance at the ladies, pushed open the swing-doors.