Nancy forgot her identity, lost sight of herself as an individual.  Her blood was heated by close air and physical contact.  She did not think, and her emotions differed little from those of any shop-girl let loose.  The ‘culture,’ to which she laid claim, evanesced in this atmosphere of exhalations.  Could she have seen her face, its look of vulgar abandonment would have horrified her.

Some one trod violently on her heel, and she turned with a half-angry laugh, protesting.  ‘Beg your pardon, miss,’ said a young fellow of the clerkly order.  ‘A push be’ind made me do it.’  He thrust himself to a place beside her, and Nancy conversed with him unrestrainedly, as though it were a matter of course.  The young man, scrutinising her with much freedom, shaped clerkly compliments, and, in his fashion, grew lyrical; until, at a certain remark which he permitted himself, Nancy felt it time to shake him off.  Her next encounter was more noteworthy.  Of a sudden she felt an arm round her waist, and a man, whose breath declared the source of his inspiration, began singing close to her ear the operatic ditty, ‘Queen of my Heart.’  He had, moreover, a good tenor voice, and belonged, vaguely, to some stratum of educated society.

‘I think you had better leave me alone,’ said Nancy, looking him severely in the face.

’Well, if you really think so,’—­he seemed struck by her manner of speech,—­’of course I will:  but I’d much rather not.’

’I might find it necessary to speak to a policeman at the next corner.’

’Oh, in that case.’—­He raised his hat, and fell aside.  And Nancy felt that, after all, the adventure had been amusing.

She was now in Regent Street, and it came to her recollection that she had made an appointment with Luckworth Crewe for nine o’clock.  Without any intention of keeping it; but why not do so?  Her lively acquaintance would be excellent company for the next hour, until she chose to bring the escapade to an end.  And indeed, save by a disagreeable struggle, she could hardly change the direction of her steps.  It was probably past nine; Crewe might have got tired of waiting, or have found it impossible to keep a position on the pavement.  Drawing near to the top of Regent Street, she hoped he might be there.  And there he was, jovially perspiring; he saw her between crowded heads, and crushed through to her side.

CHAPTER 8

‘Where are your friends?’

‘That’s more than I can tell you.’

They laughed together.

‘It’s a miracle we’ve been able to meet,’ said Crewe.  ’I had to thrash a fellow five minutes ago, and was precious near getting run in.  Shall we go the Tottenham Court Road way?  Look out!  You’d better hold on to my arm.  These big crossings are like whirlpools; you might go round and round, and never get anywhere.  Don’t be afraid; if any one runs up against you, I’ll knock him down.’