The managerial young woman had thought of that; her uncle and a few more men would be present, and, to make the dinner quite informal, they would wear morning dress. No, no, please, no excuses of any kind. Lady Frances was going to see her tailor in Maddox Street, and she could give Erb a lift so far. The tall maid (who was Miss Luker of the dance) being rung for, brought in hat and cloak, and helped her young mistress with them, giving no glance towards Erb, and the two went downstairs together. Seated at the side of Lady Frances, he was watched curiously by the drivers of one or two railway vans, who, in their anxiety to verify what appeared to be a dream, looked round by the side, allowing thus their blinkered horses to peer into omnibuses and nibble at conductors’ hats, necessitating a swift exchange of the kind of repartee in which the London driver is a past master. When Erb stepped out at Maddox Street and raising his hat started back to a point whence he could walk to his office at Bermondsey, Erb noticed that Lady Frances had a look on her face that might come to one who advanced the cause of millions and, by an act of her own, had made a whole world glad. It would be quite unfair to suggest that at this period Erb was by way of becoming a snob, but it would be untrue to say that he had any objection to the soft, pleasant scent, the well-bred air, the gracious manner that he found with Lady Frances. It is also right to say that directly he had left her he began to think of Rosalind and of his work. At this period sometimes one came first, sometimes the other. “Dinner!” he said to himself. “_Me_ at dinner at Eaton Square. ’Pon my life, this is the funniest world I ever saw.” He retained his old habit of talking as he went along the London streets, and people in a hurry stopped on noticing this, and delivered themselves of an opinion in regard to his sanity. In this way he often had long talks with Rosalind of an extremely fervent nature; Rosalind helping him with a few coy questions, all in a way that had never yet found realisation; his fluency in these rehearsals astonished him sometimes as much as his inexcusable awkwardness when he called at Camberwell. “I’m a bit of a muddler,” he confessed in Waterloo Place, “where women are concerned. In other matters, now— Look where you’re coming, stupid!” Spanswick, red faced, short necked, and pimpled, addressed in this way, was walking backwards in the inconvenient manner adopted by some on crowded pavements who wish to review scenes that have passed; it was a silken ankle stepping into a carriage that had clipped Spanswick’s attention. “What ho!” cried Spanswick. “Still a lordin’ it, Erb, old man? Kind of a amphibious animal, ain’t you?” “I can swim!” said Erb. “The best swimmers get drownded sometimes.” “Not more than once.” “Talking of which,” said Spanswick cheerily, “are you going to stand us a drink?” “No,” replied Erb.