Mavis stole a glance at the man beside her.  Her eye fell on his opera hat, the rich fur lining of his overcoat; lastly, on his face.  His whole atmosphere suggested ample means, self-confidence, easy content with life.  Then she looked at her cloak, the condition of which was now little removed from shabbiness.  The pressure of her feet on the floor of the cab reminded her how sadly her shoes were down at heel.  The contrast between their two states irked Mavis:  she was resentful at the fact of his possessing all the advantages in life of which she had been deprived.  If he had been visited with the misfortune that had assailed her, and if she had been left scathless, it would not have been so bad:  he was a man, who could have fought for his own hand, without being hindered by the obstacles which weigh so heavily on those of her own sex, who seek to win for themselves a foothold on the slippery inclines of life.  She found herself hating him more for his prosperity than for the way in which he had insulted her.

“Have you changed your mind?” asked Windebank presently.

“No.”

“Likely to?”

“No.”

“We can’t talk here, and a fog’s coming up.  Wouldn’t you like something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry—­now.”

“Where do you usually feed?”

“At an Express Dairy.”

“Eh!”

“You get a large cup of tea for tuppence there.”

“A tea-shop!  But it wouldn’t be open so late.”

“Lockhart’s is.”

“Lockhart’s?”

“The Cocoa Rooms.  In the ‘First Class’ you find quite a collection of shabby gentility.  And you’d never believe what a lot you can get there for tuppence.”

“Eh!”

“I’ll tell you, you might find it useful some day; one never knows.  You can get a huge cup of tea or coffee—­a bit stewed—­but, at least, it’s warm; also, four huge pieces of bread and butter, and a good, long, lovely rest.”

“Good God!”

“For tuppence more you can get sausages; sixpence provides a meal; a shilling a banquet.  Can’t we find a ’Lockhart’?”

The man said nothing.  The cab drove onward.  Mavis, now that her resentment against Windebank’s prosperity had found relief in words, was sorry that she had spoken as she had.  After all, the man’s well-being was entirely his own affair; it was not remotely associated with the decline in the fortunes of her family.  She would like to say or do something to atone for her bitter words.

“Poor little girl!  Poor little girl!”

This was said by Windebank feelingly, pityingly; he seemed unconscious that they had been overheard by Mavis.  She was firmly, yes, quite firmly, resolved to hate him, whatever he might do to efface her animosity.

Meanwhile, the cab had fetched something of a compass, and had now turned into Regent Street.

“Here we are:  this’ll do,” suddenly cried Windebank.