"What did he do?" "He couldn't do much. I trod on it and ran in." "Somebody'll shoot you one day," prophesied May. "Who cares? Besides, they haven't got no pluck. Men are walking cigarettes, that's what men are." Drury Lane pantomime came to an end. "And a good job," said Jenny, "for it isn't a pantomime at all; it's more of a Lord Mayor's show." Jenny now had to rehearse hard for the ballet at Covent Garden, but there was still plenty of time in the lengthening spring dusks with their silver stars and luminous horizons, to fool plenty of men. There was a quarrelsome interlude with Alfie on this account. The latter had rashly presented one of his own friends for Jenny's sport. The friend had spent most of his income on chocolates and pit-stalls, and at one swoop a whole week's salary on a garnet bracelet. "Look here," said Alfie, "don't you get playing your tricks on any of my friends, because I won't have it." "Hark at him. Hark at Alfred Proud. As if your friends were better than anyone else's." "Well, I'm not going to have fellows say my sister's hot stuff." "Who did?" "Never mind who did. Somebody said it." "Arthur?" Arthur was the melancholy Romeo introduced by Alfie. "Somebody said you was to Arthur." "And what did he do?" "He was quite disgusted. He walked away." "Didn't he have a fight over it?" "No. He said he would have done, only you treated him so off-hand." "Well, he needn't come whistling outside for me no more." "You're not going to chuck him?" "Chuck him? I never had him. He worried me to go out with him. I didn't want to go." "You'll get a bullet in your chest one of these days. You'll get shot." "Not by one of your massive friends." "Why not?" "Why, there isn't hardly one of 'em as would have the pluck to hold a pistol, and not one as would have the money to buy one." "Well, don't say I never told you." "You and your friends' pistols!" With the pride and insolence of maiden youth, Jenny took the London streets. Through the transient April rains she came from Islington to Covent Garden every day. From King's Cross she rode on the green omnibus that jogged by the budding elms of Brunswick Square. Down Guilford Street she rode and watched its frail inhabitants coming home with their parcels of ribbons and laces. Through Great Queen Street into Long Acre she came, sitting along on the front seat of the green omnibus more like a rosy lily now than a La France rose--down Long Acre till she came to Bow Street, through which she would run to the theater past the groups of porters who nodded and smiled at her, for they soon recognized the swift one running through the April rains.