Men of all ages swarmed on the pavement; some were buyers, others were attracted by the fun of the fair.  The family parties which were occasionally to be met with, as they scurried home to remote suburbs, seemed sadly out of place in this seething collection of vicious men and women.

An over-dressed black woman was there, as if to prove, if proof were needed, the universality of sin.

As the procession of painted faces loomed out of the fog, it seemed to Mavis as if they were lost souls in the spume of the pit.

She drew closer to the man at her side.  London, life itself, seemed to the girl’s jangled nerves to be a concentrated horror, from which, so it now appeared, the man beside her was her only safeguard.  He had certainly insulted her, she reflected; but his conduct was, perhaps, excusable under the circumstances in which he had found her.  Directly he had learned his mistake, he had rescued her from further contact with infamy, and had been gentle with her.  In return, she had been scarcely civil to him, and had told him a lie when he had asked her if she were his old playmate.

As she walked with him, she bitterly reproached herself for her falsehood; she also tried to hide from herself that her rudeness had been largely assumed in order to conceal her growing regard for him.  It would seem another world when he was not at her side to protect her from possible harm.

As they passed Burlington House, a beggar whined his tale of woe in their ears.  Mavis saw Windebank give the man something, the handsomeness of which made the recipient open his eyes.  A flower-seller, who had witnessed the generous act, immediately pestered Windebank to buy of her wares, an example at once followed by others of her calling.  He gave them all money, at which some of them forced their wired flowers upon him, whilst others overwhelmed him with thanks.

“Don’t thank me,” he protested, as he glanced towards Mavis, who was the recipient of countless blessings, mechanically uttered.

Beggars and loafers, with their keen scent for prey, were about him in less time than it takes to tell.  He gave largely, generously; he was soon the centre of a struggling, unsavoury crowd, which was growing larger every minute.

“Whatever are you doing?” protested Mavis.

“Wasn’t it your wish?” he asked.

“Not this.  Please, please get me out and away.”

The next moment, Windebank, dragging Mavis after him, was vigorously making a passage through those who surrounded them.  Once he saw his way clear, he ran forward, still keeping hold of her, and dragged her up Bond Street.  They were still followed by the more persistent of the loafers, but a friendly policeman came to their aid, enabling them to pursue their unmolested way down Piccadilly.

“It is good of you to let me stay with you all this time,” he said presently.

“What time is it?” she asked.