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The two girls left the Corner House by the Coventry Street entrance, and turned to the right and crossed the Piccadilly merry-go-round to the Tube entrance. As they regained the pavement, Miss Rossiter clutched Miss Parton by the arm:

“Look! the Pet! got up regardless!”

“Go on!” retorted Miss Parton. “It isn't the Pet. Yes, it is! Look at the evening cloak and the gardenia, and, my dear, the monocle!”

Unaware of this commentary, the gentleman in question was strolling negligently towards them, smoking a cigarette. As he came abreast of them, Miss Rossiter broke into a cheerful grin and said, “Hullo!”

The man raised his hat mechanically and shook his head. His face was a well-bred blank. Miss Rossiter's cheeks became flooded with a fiery crimson.

“It isn't him. How awful!”

“He took you for a tart,” said Miss Parton, with some confusion and perhaps a little satisfaction.

“It's an extraordinary thing,” muttered Miss Rossiter, vexed. “I could have sworn—”

“He's not a bit like him, really, when you see him close to,” said Miss Parton, wise after the event. “I told you it wasn't him.”