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 the whole Bubble and Squeak was flung out into the cool and starlit improprieties of Leicester Square.

Peter could not have told you if he had been asked, that he had been there, felt a devouring thirst and entered a building close at hand where there were rows of little round tables and numbers of little round waiters.

Peter sat down at the first table that occurred to him and it was not until he looked round about him that he discovered that a lady in a huge black hat was sitting smiling opposite him. Her cheeks were rouged, her gloves were soiled and her hair looked as though it might fall into a thousand pieces at the slightest provocation, but her eyes were pathetic and tired. They didn't belong to her face.

“Hullo, dear, let's have a drink. Haven't had a drink to-night.”

He asked her what she would like and she told him. She studied him carefully for quite a long time.

“Down on your luck, old chum?” she said at last.

“Yes, I am,” Peter said, “a bit depressed.”

“I know. I'm often that way myself. We all catch it. Come home and have a bit of supper. That'll cheer you up.”

“No, thanks,” said Peter politely. “I must get back to my own place in a minute.”

“Well,” said the lady. “Please yourself, and I'll have another drink if you don't very much mind.”

It was whilst he was ordering another drink that he came out of his own thoughts and considered her.

“That's right,” she said smiling, “have a good look. My name's Rose Bennett. Here's my card. Perhaps you'd like to come and have tea with me one day.”

She gave him a very dirty card on which was written “Miss Rose Bennett, 4 Annton Street, Portland Place.”

“You're Cornish,” he suddenly said, looking at her.

She moved her soiled gloves up and down the little table—“Well, what if I am?” she said defiantly, not looking at him.

“I knew it,” said Peter triumphantly, “the way you rolled your r's—”

“Well, chuck it, dear,” said Miss Bennett, “and let's talk sense. What's Cornwall got to do with us anyhow?”