*74 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 
his hands were thrust deep into the pockets. 
In the light of the lamp the woman noted 
the trousers torn at the edges and the boots 
that lacked laces. He wore a bowler hat 
crushed ludicrously on the back of his head, 
and there was about him an air of utter dejec- 
tion that touched the heart of the woman. He 
was so young. 
She sat down by him. 
As she sat down the young man, who had 
been staring before him immovably, turned his 
head slowly towards her, and she was con- 
scious that he was looking at her. She closed 
her eyes to make as if she would sleep, and 
when she opened them again she stole a 
The next moment he spoke. 
“ It’s a rotten night!” he said. 
His voice was not unpleasant, a natural, 
rather cultivated voice, with a hint of the 
Irish brogue in it. Evidently he had come 
down quite a lot in the world. 
“ Yes,” said the woman. 
The man smiled. Again his eyes held that 
curious look in them. He gazed ahead of 
him at the whisky sign that lights up green 
and red in the night on the old shot-tower by 
Blackfriars. 
“ That’s pretty, isn’t it ? ” he said. “ I 
can watch that for hours. You don’t see the 
* De ’ from here ; you only see ‘ War ’ — 
SHE SAT DOWN BY HIM. 
furtive glance, and saw that he had altered 
the position of his head so that he could 
regard her without turning to look at her. 
She saw that his eyes were brown and bright 
and intelligent. They had not the hang- 
dog, beaten look in them that one would have 
expected from his clothes. 
For a moment their eyes met, and there 
was something in his, some indefinable 
challenge, half assertion, half query, that 
made her look away again* 
‘ War ’ in red letters, blinking all night long 
over London.” 
She was surprised to hear him speak like 
that. 
“ You come here often ? ” she asked. 
“ Every night,” he replied. “ What is 
one to do when one has neither food nor 
money ? ” 
And there was a pause. 
“ And you ? ” he asked. 
She hesitated before giving an answer. 
