"Hulloh!" he said to the woman.
"What is it?" asked Valentine, who was in front.
"Wait a second, Val. I want a word with this lady."
"Rather compromising," Valentine said, laughing, as his eyes took in with
a swift glance the woman's situation in the economy of the town.
The woman now slowly advanced to the railing, apparently flattered at
being thus hailed from horseback. Her kinsmen doubtless always walked.
"Don't you remember me?" Julian said.
She was in fact the lady of the feathers, with whom he had foregathered
at the coffee-stall in Piccadilly. The lady leaned her plush arms upon
the rail and surveyed him with her tinted eyes.
"Can't say as I do, my dear," she remarked. "What name?"
"Never mind that. But tell me, have you ever had a cup of coffee and a
bun in Piccadilly early in the morning?"
The mention of the bun struck home to the lady, swept the quivering
chords of her memory into a tune. She pushed her face nearer to Julian
and stared at him hard.
"So it is," she said. "So it is."
For a moment she seemed inclined to retreat. Then she stood her ground.
Her nerves, perhaps, had grown stronger.
"I should like to know you," Julian said.
The lady was obviously gratified.
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