I was going to ask you"--he
panted--"if you'd come and have just a little supper, if you
wouldn't mind."
"Nonsense! You know you can't afford it."
"Oh, yes, I can--quite well. It would be awfully kind of you."
Polly laughed a careless acceptance, and they pressed through the
roaring traffic of cross-ways towards an electric glare. In a few
minutes they were seated amid plush and marble, mirrors and gilding,
in a savoury and aromatic atmosphere. Nothing more delightful to
Polly, who drew off her gloves and made herself thoroughly
comfortable, whilst the young man--his name was Christopher
Parish--nervously scanned a bill of fare. As his bearing proved, Mr.
Parish was not quite at home amid these splendours. As his voice and
costume indicated, he belonged to the great order of minor clerks,
and would probably go dinnerless on the morrow to pay for this
evening's festival. The waiter overawed him, and after a good deal
of bungling, with anxious consultation of his companion's appetite,
he ordered something, the nature of which was but dimly suggested to
him by its name.
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