One or two
of them turned to follow her. She never heard their footsteps. One spoke
to her. She did not reply. He persisted. When at last she was obliged to
heed him she only shook her head. He fell away, abashed by the dull
glance of her eyes, and wondering discontentedly why she was there and
what she was doing.
Forgetting him instantly, she walked on.
Some one she had known in old days met her. It was the young man in the
millinery establishment who had loved her for a week, and given her the
green evening dress trimmed with the imitation lace. Since those days
he had become strictly respectable, had married an assistant in the shop,
rented a tiny villa at Clapham, added two childish lives to the teeming
word, and developed on Sundays into a sidesman at a suburban church.
Now he was on his way to Charing Cross from a solemn supper given by his
employers at a restaurant to some of their staff. He recognized Cuckoo
and the spirit moved him to speak to her. He touched her arm.
"Miss-er-Miss Bright," he said.
Cuckoo stopped.
"Miss Bright, you remember me? Alf Heywood!"
He was a little man, with a whitish face and wispy light brown hair. Now
his pale brown eyes glanced up at Cuckoo rather nervously under rapidly
winking lids.
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