“By God, it’s bad,” said Bramham.

Fanny dropped on to the floor, clasped her hands round her knees, and looked at him, her beautiful eyes—­yes, beauty, flying through the room, shone there for a second.  Fanny’s eyes seemed to question, to commiserate, to be, for a second, love itself.  But she exaggerated.  Bramham noticed nothing.  And when the kettle boiled, up she scrambled, more like a colt or a puppy than a loving woman.

Now Jacob walked over to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets.  Mr. Springett opposite came out, looked at his shop window, and went in again.  The children drifted past, eyeing the pink sticks of sweetstuff.  Pickford’s van swung down the street.  A small boy twirled from a rope.  Jacob turned away.  Two minutes later he opened the front door, and walked off in the direction of Holborn.

Fanny Elmer took down her cloak from the hook.  Nick Bramham unpinned his drawing and rolled it under his arm.  They turned out the lights and set off down the street, holding on their way through all the people, motor cars, omnibuses, carts, until they reached Leicester Square, five minutes before Jacob reached it, for his way was slightly longer, and he had been stopped by a block in Holborn waiting to see the King drive by, so that Nick and Fanny were already leaning over the barrier in the promenade at the Empire when Jacob pushed through the swing doors and took his place beside them.

“Hullo, never noticed you,” said Nick, five minutes later.

“Bloody rot,” said Jacob.

“Miss Elmer,” said Nick.

Jacob took his pipe out of his mouth very awkwardly.

Very awkward he was.  And when they sat upon a plush sofa and let the smoke go up between them and the stage, and heard far off the high-pitched voices and the jolly orchestra breaking in opportunely he was still awkward, only Fanny thought:  “What a beautiful voice!” She thought how little he said yet how firm it was.  She thought how young men are dignified and aloof, and how unconscious they are, and how quietly one might sit beside Jacob and look at him.  And how childlike he would be, come in tired of an evening, she thought, and how majestic; a little overbearing perhaps; “But I wouldn’t give way,” she thought.  He got up and leant over the barrier.  The smoke hung about him.

And for ever the beauty of young men seems to be set in smoke, however lustily they chase footballs, or drive cricket balls, dance, run, or stride along roads.  Possibly they are soon to lose it.  Possibly they look into the eyes of faraway heroes, and take their station among us half contemptuously, she thought (vibrating like a fiddle-string, to be played on and snapped).  Anyhow, they love silence, and speak beautifully, each word falling like a disc new cut, not a hubble-bubble of small smooth coins such as girls use; and they move decidedly, as if they knew how long to stay and when to go—­oh, but Mr. Flanders was only gone to get a programme.