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They spent a desultory hour or so wandering along the Embankment, having tea at a coffee stall, watching the circling gulls and the haze on the other side of the water. The brilliancy of the summer day passed early away, little patches of white mist hung, shroudlike, over the higher stretches of the river. The sun was obscured, an oppressive heat seemed to rise from the baked pavements. There seemed to be no breath of air anywhere. Over the city, the yellow bank of clouds parted once or twice to reveal the lurid glory of a blaze of sheet lightning. Matthew rose to his feet.

"I think we'll be moving along," he suggested. "There's a storm not far away, and we haven't an umbrella between us. If we get wet through, our clothes will be spoilt."

They moved up the Savoy Hill and were caught in the stream of vehicles turning into the Savoy courtyard. A few spots of rain were falling. Rosina clutched at the arms of her two companions and dragged them up to the sheltered end, near the Theatre. They watched the people arriving—Matthew with a certain stolid interest at the display of so much wealth and luxury, Philip with half-amused, half-wistful curiosity, Rosina with a pleasure which was almost passionate in its intensity. The women looked at their best in the zephyrlike clothing of a summer night; the men, with their dazzling shirt fronts and glossy silk hats, seemed to belong to a world in which Norchester had no part. Through the great plate-glass windows, they could catch a glimpse of the maîtres d'hôtel moving about, ushering guests to their tables. From the restaurant far below, they could hear, now and then, the strains of music. Rosina clung to her two companions.