She started, and then, without a smile, said, "No," and pa.s.sed the paper to him.

"Thank you!" he murmured, taking it from her.

It was an old paper, and he did not wish to read it, but he had to pretend to be interested in it, for the girl showed no desire to offer any more than the casual civilities of one stranger to another. He hoped that he might suddenly look up and find that she was regarding him intently ... she would hurriedly glance away from him with an air of pretty confusion ... but although he looked up at her many times, he never caught her gazing at him. He wished that she would take her hat, a wide-brimmed one, off so that he might see her hair. How ridiculous it was of women to sit at meals with hats on!... He could just see a wave of dark brown hair under the brim of her hat, flowing across her broad brow. Her eyebrows were dark and level and very firm, and he thought how wonderfully the darkness of her eyebrows and her eyelids and the pallor of her skin served to enrich the beauty of her eyes.

Maggie Carmichael's eyes had had laughter in them ... they seemed always to be sparkling with merriment ... but this girl's eyes had tears in them. She might often smile, John told himself, but she would seldom laugh. Her air of listening for an alarm and the nervous movement of her fingers made him imagine that a magician had changed some swift and beautiful and timid animal into a woman. The magicians in the _Arabian Nights_ frequently turned men and women into hounds and antelopes, but the process had been reversed with this girl: an antelope had been turned into a woman.... If only she would give him an opportunity of speaking to her, of making friends with her! He suddenly held out the paper to her. "Thank you!" he said.

"It isn't mine," she answered indifferently.

He became confused and clumsy, and he put the paper down on the table so that it upset a spoon on to the floor with a noise that seemed loud enough to wake the dead; and as he stooped to pick it up, he pushed the paper against her plate, causing it almost to fall into her lap.

"I beg your pardon," he exclaimed.

"It's all right," she replied coldly.

He could feel the blood running hotly through his body, and the warm flush of it spreading over his cheeks. "That was a cut," he said to himself, and wondered what he should do or say next. What a fool he must appear to her! ... It would be ridiculous to ask her to tell him the time, for there was a large and palpable clock over her head so fixed that he could not fail to see it. It was very odd, he thought, that she should not wish to speak to him when he so ardently wished to speak to her. She had finished her meal and he knew that in a moment or two she would rise and go out of the restaurant. He leant across the table.

"Miss Moore," he said, "I wish you would be friends with me!"

She looked at him as if she were not certain that he had spoken to her, and as she saw how earnestly he gazed at her, the expression of her face changed from one of astonishment to one of alarm.

"Won't you?" he said.

She gave a little gasp and rose hurriedly from her seat.

"Miss Moore!" he said appealingly.

"I don't know you," she replied, hurrying away.

He sat still. It seemed to him that every person in the restaurant must be looking at him and condemning him for his behaviour. He had spoken to a girl who did not know him, and he had frightened her. The look of alarm in her face was unmistakable. What must she think of him? Would she ever believe that he had no wish to frighten her, that he wished only to be her friend, to talk to her? If he had told her that he did not know anyone in London and was feeling miserably lonely, perhaps she would have been kind to him ... but what opportunity had he had to tell her anything. Well, that was the end of that! He was not likely to see Eleanor Moore again, and even if he were, he could hardly hope, after such a rebuff, to win her friendship unless a miracle were to happen ... and he had begun to feel dubious about miracles since he had arrived in London. Perhaps, if he were to follow her and explain matters to her!...

He hurried out of the restaurant, and stood for a moment or two on the pavement glancing up and down the street. She was turning out of the lane into Queen Victoria Street, and as he stood looking at her, she turned round the corner and he lost sight of her.

"I'll go after her," he said.

IX

He ran into Queen Victoria Street and glanced eagerly about him. It was difficult in the press of people to distinguish a single person, but fortunately the street was fairly clear of traffic, and he saw her crossing the road near the Mansion House. He hastened after her and saw her enter a block of offices in Cornhill. He reached the door of this building in time to see her being carried out of sight in the lift. He entered the hall and stood by the gate until the lift had descended.

"Can you tell me which of these offices that lady works in?" he said to the liftman. "The lady you've just taken up, Miss Moore?"

The liftman looked at him suspiciously.

"Wot you want to know for?" he demanded.

"Oh, I ... I'm a friend of hers," John answered lamely.

"Well, if you're a friend of 'ers, I daresay she'll tell you 'erself next time she sees you," said the liftman. "Any-'ow, I sha'n't. See?"

"But I particularly want to know," John persisted. "Look here, I'll give you half-a-crown if you'll tell me!..."

"An' I'll give you a thick ear if you don't 'op it out of this quick,"

the liftman retorted angrily. "I know you. Nosey Parker, that's wot you are! Comin' 'round 'ere, annoyin' girls! I know you! I seen fellers like you before, I 'ave!..."

"What do you mean?" said John.

"Mean! 'Ere's wot I mean. You're either a broker's man!..."

"No, I'm not," John interrupted.

"Or you're up to no good, see! An' wotever you are, you can just 'op it, see! You'll get no information out of me, Mr. Nosey Parker, see!

An' if I ketch you 'angin' about 'ere, annoyin' 'er or anybody else I'll 'it you on the jawr, see, an' then I'll 'and you over to the police. An' that'll learn you!"

John stared at the man. "Do you mean to say?..."

"I mean to say wot I 'ave said," the liftman interjected. "An' I don't mean to say no more. 'Op it. That's all. Or it'll be the worse for you!"

The lift bell rang, and the man entered the lift and closed the gate.

Then he ascended out of sight. John gaped through the gate into the well of the lift.

"I've a good mind to break that chap's skull," he said to himself as he turned away.

He left the block of offices and went towards Prince's Street.

"It's no good hanging about here any longer," he said. "I'll go home!"

A 'bus drove up as he reached the corner, and he climbed into it. "I'll come again to-morrow," he said, "and try and find her. She'll have to listen to me. I'm really in love this time!"

He had been provided with a latch-key before leaving Miss Squibb's house in the morning, and, with an air of responsibility, he let himself in. Lizzie, carrying a tray of dishes, came into the hall as he opened the door.

"Just in time," she said affably. "If you'd 'a' been a bit sooner, you'd 'a' seen the Creams. They come back just after you went out 'smornin'. I told 'em all about you ... you bein' Irish an' littery an'

never 'avin' been to the Zoo or anythink. They _was_ interested!"

"Oh!"

"'E's such a nice man, Mr. Cream is. She ain't bad, but 'e's nice. They gone to the Oxford now. I wish you'd seen 'em start off in their broom!"

"Broom?"

"Yes, their carriage. They 'ave to 'ire one when they're in London so's to get about from one 'all to another. They act in two or three 'alls a night in London. I do like to see 'em go off in their broom of a evenin'. Mykes the 'ouse look a bit cla.s.sy, I think, but Aunt says they're living in sin an' she down't feel 'appy about it. But wot I sy is, wot's it matter so long as they pys their rent reg'lar an' down't go an' myke no fuss. They couldn't be less trouble. They keep on their rooms 'ere, just the same whether they're 'ere or not, an' sometimes they're away for months at a stretch. It ain't every dy you get lodgers like them, and wot I sy is, if they are livin' in sin, it's them that'll ave to go to 'ell for it, not us. Aunt's very religious, but she can see sense syme's anybody else, so she 'olds 'er tongue about it. I down't 'old with sin myself, mind you, but I down't believe in cuttin' off your nose to spite someone else's fyce. You go an' wash your 'ands, an' I'll 'ave your dinner up in 'alf a jiff!..."

John stared at her. "I don't know what you mean by living in sin," he said.

"Well, you are innercent," she replied. "'Aven't you never 'eard of no one livin' together without bein' married?"

"I've read about it!..."