’Have I?  How kind of you to say so.—­I’ve had enough of this wind; we’ll go down.’

She led the way, and neither of them spoke till they were in the street again.  Nancy felt her hair.

‘Am I blown to pieces?’ she asked.

‘No, no; you’re all right.  Now, will you walk through the City?’

‘Where’s the place you spoke of?’

’Farringdon Street.  That’ll bring you round to Blackfriars Bridge, when you want to go home.  But there’s plenty of time yet.’

So they rambled aimlessly by the great thoroughfares, and by hidden streets of which Nancy had never heard, talking or silent as the mood dictated.  Crewe had stories to tell of this and that thriving firm, of others struggling in obscurity or falling from high estate; to him the streets of London were so many chapters of romance, but a romance always of to-day, for he neither knew nor cared about historic associations.  Vast sums sounded perpetually on his lips; he glowed with envious delight in telling of speculations that had built up great fortunes.  He knew the fabulous rents that were paid for sites that looked insignificant; he repeated anecdotes of calls made from Somerset House upon men of business, who had been too modest in returning the statement of their income; he revived legends of dire financial disaster, and of catastrophe barely averted by strange expedients.  To all this Nancy listened with only moderate interest; as often as not, she failed to understand the details which should have excited her wonder.  None the less, she received an impression of knowledge, acuteness, power, in the speaker; and this was decidedly pleasant.

‘Here’s the place where I think of starting for myself,’ said Crewe, as he paused at length before a huge building in Farringdon Street.

‘This?—­Can you afford such a rent?’

Her companion burst into laughter.

’I don’t mean the whole building.  Two or three rooms, that’s all, somewhere upstairs.’

Nancy made a jest of her mistake.

‘An advertising agent doesn’t want much space,’ said Crewe.  ’I know a chap who’s doing a pretty big business in one room, not far from here.—­Well, we’ve had a long walk; now you must rest a bit, and have a cup of tea.’

‘I thought you were going to propose champagne.’

‘Oh—­if you like—­’

They went to a restaurant in Fleet Street, and sat for half an hour over the milder beverage.  Crewe talked of his projects, his prospects; and Nancy, whom the afternoon had in truth fatigued a little, though her mind was still excited, listened without remark.

‘Well,’ he said at length, leaning towards her, ’how long do you give me?’

She looked away, and kept silence.

’Two years:—­just to make a solid start; to show that something worth talking ‘about is to come?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

He kept his position, and gazed at her.