but evidently could not help smiling at Harry. "I know the value of your compliments," she remarked. "There are plenty of them going about the place to judge by!"
"Mercy, Sally, mercy! Don't show me up before my friends!"
Miss Dutton busied herself with her supper. The Nun ate little; most of the time she sat with her pretty hands clasped on the table in front of her. Suddenly she began to tell what proved to be a rather long story about a man named Tommy – everybody except Andy knew whom she meant. She told this story in a low, pleasant, but somewhat monotonous voice. In truth the Nun was a trifle prolix and prosy, but she also looked so nice that they were quite content to listen and to look. It appeared that Tommy had done what no man should do; he had made love to two girls at once. For a long time all went well; but one day Tommy, being away from the sources of supply of cash (as a rule he transacted all his business in notes), wrote two cheques – the Nun specified the amounts, one being considerably larger than the other – placed them in two envelopes, and proceeded to address them wrongly. Each lady got the other lady's cheque, and – "Well, they wanted to know about it," said the Nun, with a pensive smile. So, being acquaintances, they laid their heads together, and the next time Tommy (who had never discovered his mistake) asked lady number one to dinner, she asked lady number two, "and when Tommy arrived," said the Nun, "they told him he'd find it cheaper that way, because there'd only be one tip for the waiter!" The Nun, having reached her point, gave a curiously pretty little gurgle of laughter.
"Rather neat!" said Billy Foot. "And did they chuck him?"
"They'd agreed to, but Maud weakened on it. Nellie did."
"Poor old Tommy!" mused Harry Belfield.
It was not a story of surpassing merit whether it were regarded from the moral or from the artistic point of view; but the Nun had grown delighted with herself as she told it, and her delight made her look even more pretty. Andy could not keep his eyes off her; she perceived his honest admiration and smiled serenely at him across the table.
"I suppose it was Nellie who was to have the small cheque?" Billy Foot suggested.
"No; it was Maud."
"Then I drink to Maud as a true woman and a forgiving creature!"
Andy broke into a hearty enjoying laugh. Nothing had passed which would stand a critical examination in humour, much less in wit; but Andy was very happy. He had never had such a good time, never seen so many gay and pretty women, never been so in touch with the holiday side of life. The Nun delighted him; Miss Dutton was a pleasantly acid pickle to stimulate the palate for all this rich food. Billy Foot and Harry looked at him, looked at one another, and laughed.
"They're laughing at you," said Miss Dutton in her most sardonic tone.
"I don't mind. Of course they are! I'm such an outsider."
"Worth a dozen of either of them," she remarked, with a calmly impersonal air that reduced her compliment to a mere statement of fact.
"Oh, I heard!" cried Harry. "You don't think much of us, do you, Sally?"
"I come here every night," said Miss Dutton. "Consequently I know."
The pronouncement was so confident, so conclusive, that there was nothing to do but laugh at it. They all laughed. If you came there every night, "consequently" you would know many things!
"We must eat somewhere," observed the Nun with placid resignation.
"We must be as good as we can and hope for mercy," said Billy Foot.
"You'll need it," commented Miss Dutton.
"Let's hope the law of supply and demand will hold good!" laughed Harry.
"How awfully jolly all this is!" said Andy.
He had just time to observe Miss Dutton's witheringly patient smile before the lights went out. "Hullo!" cried Andy; and the rest laughed.
Up again the lights went, but the Nun rose from her chair.
"Had enough of it?" asked Harry.
"Yes," said the Nun with her simple, candid, yet almost scornful directness. "Oh, it's been all right. I like your friend, Harry – not Billy, of course – the new one, I mean."
When they had got their cloaks and coats and were waiting for the Nun's electric brougham, Harry made an announcement that filled Andy with joy and the rest of the company with amazement.
"This is good-bye for a bit, Doris," he said. "I'm off to the country the day after to-morrow."
"What have we done to you?" the Nun inquired with sedate anxiety.
"I've got to work, and I can't do it in London. I've got a career to look after."
The Nun gurgled again – for the second time only in the course of the evening. "Oh yes," she murmured with obvious scepticism. "Well, come and see me when you get back." She turned her eyes to Andy, and, to his great astonishment, asked, "Would you like to come too?"
Andy could hardly believe that he was himself, but he had no doubt about his answer. The Nun interested him very much, and was so very pretty. "I should like to awfully," he replied.
"Come alone – not with these men, or we shall only talk nonsense," said the Nun, as she got into her brougham. "Get in, Sally."
"Where's the hurry?" asked Miss Dutton, getting in nevertheless. The Nun slapped her arm smartly; the two girls burst into a giggle, and so went off.
"Where to now?" asked Harry.
Andy wondered what other place there was.
"Bed for me," said Billy Foot. "I've a consultation at half-past nine, and I haven't opened the papers yet."
"Bed is best," Harry agreed, though rather reluctantly. "Going to take a cab, Billy?"
"What else is there to take?"
"Thought you might be walking."
"Oh, walking be – !" He climbed into a hansom.
"I'll walk with you, Harry. I haven't had exercise enough."
Harry suggested that they should go home by the Embankment. When they had cut down a narrow street to it, he put his arm in Andy's and led him across the road. They leant on the parapet, looking at the river. The night was fine, but hazy and still – a typical London night.
"You've given me a splendid evening," said Andy. "And what a good sort those girls were!"
"Yes," said Harry, rather absently, "not a bad sort. Doris has got her head on her shoulders, and she's quite straight. Poor Sally's come one awful cropper. She won't come another; she's had more than enough of it. So one doesn't mind her being a bit snarly."
Poor Sally! Andy had had no idea of anything of the sort, but he had an instinct that people who come one cropper – and one only – feel that one badly.
"I'm feeling happy to-night, old fellow," said Harry suddenly. "You may not happen to know it, but I've gone it a bit for the last two or three years, made rather a fool of myself, and – well, one gets led on. Now I've made up my mind to chuck all that. Some of it's all right – at any rate it seems to happen; but I've had enough. I really do want to work at the politics, you know."
"It's
