On the curb a legless man was seated in a sort of perambulator with
double wheels, playing a concertina and accompanying another man with no
arms and a glass eye who sang with a gorgeous cockney accent, “Come
hout, Come hout, the Spring is ’ere.” A few yards farther down a girl
with the remains of prettiness was playing the violin at the side of an
elderly woman with the smile of professional supplication who held a
small tin cup. The incessant crowd which passed up and down Queen’s Road
paid little attention either to these stray dogs or to those who
occupied other competitive positions in this street of constant noises.
Flappers with very short skirts and every known specimen of leg added to
the tragic-comedy of a thoroughfare in which provincialism and
sophistication were like oil and water. Here was drawn the outside line
of polite pretence. The tide of _hoi polloi_ washed up to it and over.
Ex-governors of Indian provinces, utterly unrecognized, ex-officers and
men of gallant British regiments, mostly out of employment, nurse girls
with children, and women of semi-society who lived in those dull barrack
houses of Inverness Terrace, where cats squabbled and tradesmen’s boys
fought, passed the anxious mother.
Not a day went by that she did not hear from Lola of one or perhaps a
series of attempts, in the street, in the Tube, in busses and in the
Park, to win her into conversation. The horror stirred by these accounts
in the heart of the little woman, to say nothing of the terror, seemed
oddly exaggerated to the daughter, who, with her eyes large and gleaming
with fun, described the manner in which she left her unrestrained
admirers flat and inarticulate. There was nothing vain in this
acceptance of male admiration, the mother knew. It was something of
which the child had been aware ever since she could remember; had
accepted without regret; had hitherto put to no use; but which, deep
down in her soul, was recognized as the all-powerful asset of a woman,
not to be bought with money, achieved by art or simulated by acting.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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