Then she could not be so wild and
odd and uncivilised as she often was afraid that she was. She
rejoined Martin with a little added glow in her cheeks.
"Who was that?" Martin asked her rather sharply.
She told him.
"One of those humbugging parsons," he said. "He stood over you as
though he'd like to eat you."
"Oh, I'm sure he's not a humbug," she answered.
"You'd be taken in by anybody," he told her.
"Oh, no, I shouldn't," she said. "Now forget him."
And they did. By the time they had reached Piccadilly Circus they
were once more deep, deep in one another. They were back in their
dark and gleaming wood.
The Lyric Theatre was their destination. Maggie drew a breath as
they stepped into the hall where there stood two large stout
commissionaires in blue uniforms, gold buttons, and white gloves.
People pushed past them and hurried down the stairs on either side
as though a theatre were a Nothing. Maggie stood there fingering her
gloves and feeling lonely. The oil painting of a beautiful lady with
a row of shining teeth faced her. There were also some palms and a
hole in the wall with a man behind it.
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