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Preposterous too was her head-gear, an amorphous bonnet trimmed
in black, with a cheap black feather drooping brokenly.
Her eyes gave me a reproachful glance and turned away again.
Then she shrugged her shoulders and sniffed. My mother had a
housemaid once who always sniffed like that before beginning to
cry. My position was untenable. I could not remain stonily on
the seat while this grotesquely attired damsel wept; and for the
life of me I could not get up and leave her. She looked at me
again. Those swimming, pleading eyes were scarcely human. I
capitulated.
"Don't cry. Tell me what I can do for you," I said.
She moved a few inches nearer.
"I want to find Harry," she said; "I have lost him."
"Who's Harry?" I naturally inquired.
"He is to be my husband."
"What's his other name?"
"I have forgotten," she said, spreading out her hands.
"Don't you know any one else in London?" I asked.
She shook her head mournfully. "And I am getting so hungry."
I suggested that there were restaurants in London.


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