Nancy forgot her identity, lost sight of herself as
an individual. Her blood was heated by close
air and physical contact. She did not think,
and her emotions differed little from those of any
shop-girl let loose. The ‘culture,’
to which she laid claim, evanesced in this atmosphere
of exhalations. Could she have seen her face,
its look of vulgar abandonment would have horrified
her.
Some one trod violently on her heel, and she turned
with a half-angry laugh, protesting. ‘Beg
your pardon, miss,’ said a young fellow of the
clerkly order. ‘A push be’ind made
me do it.’ He thrust himself to a place
beside her, and Nancy conversed with him unrestrainedly,
as though it were a matter of course. The young
man, scrutinising her with much freedom, shaped clerkly
compliments, and, in his fashion, grew lyrical; until,
at a certain remark which he permitted himself, Nancy
felt it time to shake him off. Her next encounter
was more noteworthy. Of a sudden she felt an arm
round her waist, and a man, whose breath declared
the source of his inspiration, began singing close
to her ear the operatic ditty, ‘Queen of my
Heart.’ He had, moreover, a good tenor voice,
and belonged, vaguely, to some stratum of educated
society.
‘I think you had better leave me alone,’
said Nancy, looking him severely in the face.
’Well, if you really think so,’—he
seemed struck by her manner of speech,—’of
course I will: but I’d much rather not.’
’I might find it necessary to speak to a policeman
at the next corner.’
’Oh, in that case.’—He raised
his hat, and fell aside. And Nancy felt that,
after all, the adventure had been amusing.
She was now in Regent Street, and it came to her recollection
that she had made an appointment with Luckworth Crewe
for nine o’clock. Without any intention
of keeping it; but why not do so? Her lively
acquaintance would be excellent company for the next
hour, until she chose to bring the escapade to an
end. And indeed, save by a disagreeable struggle,
she could hardly change the direction of her steps.
It was probably past nine; Crewe might have got tired
of waiting, or have found it impossible to keep a
position on the pavement. Drawing near to the
top of Regent Street, she hoped he might be there.
And there he was, jovially perspiring; he saw her
between crowded heads, and crushed through to her side.
CHAPTER 8
‘Where are your friends?’
‘That’s more than I can tell you.’
They laughed together.
‘It’s a miracle we’ve been able
to meet,’ said Crewe. ’I had to thrash
a fellow five minutes ago, and was precious near getting
run in. Shall we go the Tottenham Court Road
way? Look out! You’d better hold on
to my arm. These big crossings are like whirlpools;
you might go round and round, and never get anywhere.
Don’t be afraid; if any one runs up against
you, I’ll knock him down.’
