The policeman smothers a decorous smile: “Beg pardon, sir that ’ere man was run in dead drunk a fortnight ago on the Nottin’ ’Ill road and got two days.” Bertram is silent. He remembers that Hopper appeared at his chambers ten days previously with a black eye and bandaged head, and accounted for his condition by a very well-told episode of a runaway horse and a lady saved by his courage and resolution. Marlow laughs, nods, and walks on; Bertram lights another cigarette. He is not pleased by this episode. Marlow, meanwhile continuing his walk, comes, some tenth part of a mile further down the road, on two ladies, whom he recognises immediately although their backs are towards him; one is Cicely Seymour, the other Lady Jane Rivaux. He overtakes them with as much haste and joyousness as it is possible for a London man in the ’Nineties to display in public. “Oh, Miss Seymour, such a lark down there,” he says, with great satisfaction. “A friend of Bertram’s run in dead drunk by the police, and Bertram preaching red ruin on his behalf. On my word, it’s the drollest sight I’ve seen for many a day.” “It must be,” replied Cicely, between her teeth. “We have all of us numbers of friends who take more stimulants than are good for them, but they are careful to be in the sanctuary of their own houses or in their clubs.” “How you do pull up a fellow!” murmurs Marlow. “Of course, when I say friend I mean a--a--well, one of his monstrous queer acquaintances. He lives amongst that class.” “What class?” “Well, the--the mob--you know. Folks that come out when there’s a riot and smash windows and lamps; never see ’em any other time; burrow, I suppose, like rabbits.” “Darkest London? I fear the lamps when they are not smashed do not throw much light on their darkness.” “How sententious you are, Cicely!” says Lady Jane. “You ought to marry a rising politician.” “Because I detest politics?” “Bertram’s views aren’t politics, they’re red ruin,” repeats Marlow. “Red ruin to himself, too; he’s dropped such a pot o’ money over that revolutionary journal of his that he’ll be in the bankruptcy court before the season’s over.” “Has he borrowed any money of you?” asks Cicely, curtly. “Oh dear, no; I didn’t mean to imply----” “Then what are his affairs to you?” “Well--I--I--don’t know. Mustn’t one talk of one’s neighbours?” “It shows great poverty of mind to speak merely of people. There are so many other subjects.” Marlow is abashed. He knows that his mind is not rich according to her ideas of intellectual wealth. “At all events,” he says, rather crossly and hotly, “one may be allowed to envy such a prig such good luck as to have Miss Seymour for a champion.” “Jane,” says Cicely, turning to her friend, “here come your children. How well that mite Dolly rides!” “He _is_ a prig, you know, my dear,” murmurs Lady Jane, “and I am sorry it makes you angry when we say so.”