Something, she could not have told what, had instantly drawn her eyes to the girl's attire. Evie Soames was wearing a black jacket and black fur cap, but the wind, turning the jacket aside, showed the narrow black and white stripes of the blouse beneath. "Oh--fancy meeting you!" Evie said, turning her dark eyes as if she had only that moment seen Louie. There was something in her manner that Louie interpreted as meaning, "Very well, if I've got to be cordial I'll _be_ cordial!" "Are you going by this bus?" she added. "Yes." "Oh! Where are you living now--Putney?" It may be that Louie met any slight the last word might have conveyed half-way and more. She replied, a little shortly: "No, Lavender Hill; I change at Victoria. After you----" "Oh no--after you!" Louie ascended; they couldn't stand on the kerb discussing points of precedence. "Let's go in front," Evie said, "and then men won't smoke on us," and they settled down. "Well," Evie said, adjusting the apron, "and how are _you_?" "Thank you," said Louie, "perfectly well." "There's room for your parcel here. Such ages since we met! Let me see, when was it?" They discussed when it was, and then, "And have you seen Kitty Windus lately?" Evie asked. Since her first visit to the Hickleys' Louie had seen Kitty perhaps half-a-dozen times in all, not oftener. Kitty had been to Margate, thence to Whetstone, and after that to Alf Windus the violinist's. Louie had simply not been able to see her oftener; she had had far too much to do. And, after all, nothing (the nothing of Louie's fears and fancies) seemed to have happened. Except to herself (Louie guessed) Kitty made no mysterious allusions to black eyes. She was merely puzzled, pathetic, harmless. She had not that perilous thing, a preconceived theory into which events had a fulfilling way of dropping of themselves. So Louie replied to Evie Soames in a tone as casual as her own: "Oh yes, I've seen her several times. Of course you heard that her engagement to Mr. Jeffries was broken off?" "Oh yes," said Evie, looking straight in front of her. "Have you seen her, then?" "Oh no. But of course Mr. Jeffries himself would know, wouldn't he?--that is, if you call it breaking off when a person just disappears without saying where she is or anything about it. Don't bother to unbutton; I have some pennies----" But Louie also had pennies. "Any more fares?" the conductor called, and then went downstairs again. The two women fell into a silence. The early lamplight came and went on their faces as the bus jogged on.