“Perhaps I’ll catch her,” answered Milly Edwards, the waitress with the pale plaits of hair; and she dashed through the door.

“No good,” she said, coming back a moment later with Fanny’s cheap umbrella.  She put her hand to her plaits.

“Oh, that door!” grumbled the cashier.

Her hands were cased in black mittens, and the finger-tips that drew in the paper slips were swollen as sausages.

“Pie and greens for one.  Large coffee and crumpets.  Eggs on toast.  Two fruit cakes.”

Thus the sharp voices of the waitresses snapped.  The lunchers heard their orders repeated with approval; saw the next table served with anticipation.  Their own eggs on toast were at last delivered.  Their eyes strayed no more.

Damp cubes of pastry fell into mouths opened like triangular bags.

Nelly Jenkinson, the typist, crumbled her cake indifferently enough.  Every time the door opened she looked up.  What did she expect to see?

The coal merchant read the Telegraph without stopping, missed the saucer, and, feeling abstractedly, put the cup down on the table-cloth.

“Did you ever hear the like of that for impertinence?” Mrs. Parsons wound up, brushing the crumbs from her furs.

“Hot milk and scone for one.  Pot of tea.  Roll and butter,” cried the waitresses.

The door opened and shut.

Such is the life of the elderly.

It is curious, lying in a boat, to watch the waves.  Here are three coming regularly one after another, all much of a size.  Then, hurrying after them comes a fourth, very large and menacing; it lifts the boat; on it goes; somehow merges without accomplishing anything; flattens itself out with the rest.

What can be more violent than the fling of boughs in a gale, the tree yielding itself all up the trunk, to the very tip of the branch, streaming and shuddering the way the wind blows, yet never flying in dishevelment away?  The corn squirms and abases itself as if preparing to tug itself free from the roots, and yet is tied down.

Why, from the very windows, even in the dusk, you see a swelling run through the street, an aspiration, as with arms outstretched, eyes desiring, mouths agape.  And then we peaceably subside.  For if the exaltation lasted we should be blown like foam into the air.  The stars would shine through us.  We should go down the gale in salt drops—­as sometimes happens.  For the impetuous spirits will have none of this cradling.  Never any swaying or aimlessly lolling for them.  Never any making believe, or lying cosily, or genially supposing that one is much like another, fire warm, wine pleasant, extravagance a sin.

“People are so nice, once you know them.”

“I couldn’t think ill of her.  One must remember—­” But Nick perhaps, or Fanny Elmer, believing implicitly in the truth of the moment, fling off, sting the cheek, are gone like sharp hail.