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’ ‘It’s no use blaming me, Gerald,’ uttered Roding, shrugging helplessly as his senior turned questioning eyes on him. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Ladies with weapon’s on ’em. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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