"Poor little girl! Poor little girl!"
This was said by Windebank feelingly, pityingly; he seemed
unconscious that they had been overheard by Mavis. She was firmly,
yes, quite firmly, resolved to hate him, whatever he might do to
efface her animosity.
Meanwhile, the cab had fetched something of a compass, and had now
turned into Regent Street.
"Here we are: this'll do," suddenly cried Windebank.
"What for?"
"Grub. Hi, stop!"
Obedient to his summons, the cabman stopped. Mavis got out on the
pavement, where she stood irresolute.
"You'll come in?"
Mavis did not reply.
"We must have a talk. Please, please don't refuse me this."
"I shan't eat anything."
"If you don't, I shan't."
"I won't--I swear I won't accept the least favour from you."
She looked at him resentfully: she would go any lengths to conceal
her lessening dislike for him.
"You'd better wait," he called to the cabman, as he led the way to a
restaurant.
Two attendants, in gold-laced coats, opened double folding doors at
the approach of the man and the girl.
Mavis found herself in a large hall, elaborately decorated with red
and gold, upon the floor of which were many tables, that just now
were sparsely occupied.
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