But I was doomed to be done. Luck was clean against me. Just as we were getting ready to close in came an old woman--one of your red-faced sort, with her bonnet a little on one side of her head. She wanted some torchon lace. Now, strictly speaking, lace is not in my department, but as we are all supposed to serve through, and most of the others were engaged--it is extraordinary how, some nights, people will crowd into the shop just as we are getting ready to close--Mr. Broadley planted her on me. She was a nice old party. She did not know herself what she wanted, but seemed to think I ought to. So far as I could make out, what she really did want was a four shilling lace at fourpence--which we could not exactly supply. At last I called Mr. Broadley to see if he could make her out. On which she actually turned huffy, and declaring that I would not take the trouble to show her anything at all, in spite of all that we could do or say, she marched straight out. Then I had a wigging. Broadley let himself go, before them all. I could have cried--and almost did. I was three-quarters of an hour late before I got into the street. Emily Purvis was tired of waiting, and Tom Cooper was in a red-hot rage. “My dear,” began Emily, directly she saw me, “I hope you haven’t hurried. We’re only frozen to the bone.” “That’s all right,” said Tom. “It’s just the sort of night to hang about this confounded corner.” It was disagreeable weather. There was a nasty east wind, which seemed to cut right into one, and the pavements were wet and slimy. It all seemed of a piece. I knew Tom’s overcoat was not too thick, nor Emily’s jacket too warm either. When I saw Tom dancing about to keep himself warm, all at once something seemed to go over me, and I had to cry. Then there was a pretty fuss. “Polly!” exclaimed Emily. “Whatever is the matter with you now?” And there, in the open street, Tom put his arm about my waist. I told them all about it. You should have heard how they went on at Broadley. It did me good to listen, though I knew it would make no difference to him. They had not had the best of luck either. It seemed that it had been one of those days on which everything goes wrong with everyone. Emily had not got one single spiff, and Tom had had a quarrel with young Clarkson, who had called him Ginger to his face--and the colour of his hair is a frightfully delicate point with Tom. Tom had threatened to punch his head when they went upstairs. I begged and prayed him not to, but there was a gloomy air about him which showed that he would have to do something to relieve his feelings. I felt that punching young Clarkson’s head might do him good--and Clarkson no particular harm. I do not think that either of us was particularly happy. The streets were nearly deserted. It was bitterly cold. Every now and then a splash of rain was driven into our faces.