The table next to theirs was the only
one unoccupied in the room.
The two friends sat down and began to eat rather silently in the midst of
the uproar of conversation round them. Valentine seemed quite unconscious
of the many glances directed towards him. He never succeeded in passing
unnoticed anywhere, and although he had never done anything remarkable,
was one of the best-known men in town merely by virtue of his unusual
personality.
"There's the Victoria Street Saint," murmured a pretty girl to her
companion. "What a fortune that man could make on the stage."
"Yes, or as a pianist," responded the man, rather enviously. "His looks
would crowd St. James's Hall even if he couldn't play a note. I never can
understand how Cresswell manages to have such a complexion in London. He
must take precious good care of himself."
"Saints generally do. You see, we live for time, they for eternity. We
only have to keep the wrinkles at bay for a few years, but they want to
look nice on the Judgment Day."
She was a little actress, and at this point she laughed to indicate
that she had said something smart. As her laugh was dutifully echoed
by the man who was paying for the dinner, she felt deliriously clever
for the rest of the evening.
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