it was a pity there were not more lamps in Long Acre by which you could have seen her.
Their feet swayed together in a delightful rhythm, in their radiant progress: spats by Grant and Cockburn, and Mr. Moykopf's most superior hand-stitched russia leather, and eight and eleven penny Walk-easies made by the gross at Kettering, which had no spats upon 'em. Yes, it was a lovely walk in the dark amid the purlieus of Long Acre. Several times they lost their way, and didn't try very hard to find it. And then, suddenly, from out the distant mirk, where the time-spirit was keeping its grim eye upon 'em, the hour was tolled from Saint Martin's Church.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven!—the excited heart of the Principal Girl counted each stroke. Cinderella must fly. She would only just have time to drink her Oxo, and to get into her rags—which were not rags at all really—and fix her war paint, if the great British public was not to receive one of the severest disappointments in its annals.
"Well, think about it, old girl—although I don't mean to take 'No.' I've made up my mind to that."
They were on Granny's doorstep now. And there let us leave them without waiting to see what happened.
Did something happen?
There is no need to gratify idle curiosity upon the subject.
