KIPPS
great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny.
"'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly, and not saluting.
Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen, and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He effected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps, while Helen stood in white amazement.
"About that play," he said.
"'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen.
"It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you—Strong."
"That's aw right," said Kipps.
"You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" beyond any possibility of error. "But I think it's coming off. However— I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come round, eh?"
"Right you are," said Kipps.
"To-night?"
"At eight."
And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's, and noted her for a girl of quality. . . .
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