“Enormous, isn’t it?  Why, it’s like a town in itself!”

Had his own name been Swettenham he could hardly have shown more pride in these figures.  When Polly inquired how much they made a year he was unable to reply with exactitude, but the mere thought of what such a total must be all but overcame him.  Personally he profited by his connexion with the great firm to the extent of two pounds a week, an advance of ten shillings on what he had hitherto earned.  And his prospects!  Why, they were limitless.  Once let a fellow get into Swettenham’s—­

“You’re not doing so bad for a single man,” remarked Polly, with facetious malice in her eye.  “But it won’t run to a supper like this very often.”

“Oh—­well—­not often, of course.”  His voice quavered into sudden despondency.  “Just now and then, you know.  Have some cheese?”

“Don’t mind—­Gorgonzoler.”

He paid the bill right bravely and added sixpence for the waiter, though it cost him as great a pang as the wrenching of a double tooth.  A rapid calculation told him that he must dine at the Aerated Bread Shop for several days to come.  Whilst he was thus computing Polly drew out her gold watch.  It caught his eye, he stood transfixed, and his stare rose from the watch to Polly’s face.

“Just after eleven,” she remarked airily, and began to hum.

Christopher had but a silver watch, an heirloom of considerable antiquity, and the chain was jet.  Sunk of a sudden in profoundest gloom he led the way to the exit, walking like a shamefaced plebeian who had got into the room by mistake.  Polly’s spirits were higher than ever.  Just beyond the electric glare she thrust her arm under that of her mute companion.

“You don’t want me to git run over, do you?”

Parish had a thrill of satisfaction, but with difficulty he spoke.

“Let’s get out of this crowd—­beastly, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind a crowd.  I like it when I’ve someone to hang on by.”

“Oh, I don’t mind it, I like just what you like.  What time did you say it was, Miss Sparkes?”

“Just eleven.  Time I was gettin’ ’ome.  There’ll be a bus at the corner.”

“I hoped you were going to walk,” urged Christopher timidly.

“S’pose I might just as well—­if you’ll take care of me.”

It was a long time since Polly had been so gracious, so mild.  All the way down Whitehall, across the bridge, and into Kennington Road she chatted of a hundred things, but never glanced at the one which held complete possession of Christopher’s mind.  Many times he brought himself all but to the point of mentioning it, yet his courage invariably failed.  The risk was too great; it needed such a trifling provocation to disturb Polly’s good humour.  He perspired under the warmth of the night and from the tumult of his feelings.

“You mustn’t meet me again for a week,” said Polly when her dwelling was within sight.