the know--an' kicks like a mule when I let 'er off--made me nose bleed
fust time I tried with blank. But when we gets a bit more used to each
other, it 'll be a case of bloomin' Doppers rollin' over in the dust, like
rock-rabbits. Don't forget to tell 'er as wot I said so."

"Why ... ain't she a Dutchy 'erself? She wrote a letter for me in their
rummy lingo to my young man!"

"Cripps!" He stared in dismay. "Blessed if I 'adn't forgot. But if an
Englishman marries a foreigner," he swelled heroic, "that puts 'er in the
stryte runnin'. And 'art an' 'and I'm 'ers, whenever she'll 'ave me! Tell
'er THAT--with a double row of crosses from W. Keyse! And--can you
remember a bit o' poetry?" He recited with shamefaced rapidity:

"It is my sentry-go to-night,
And when I watch the moon so bright,
Shining o'er South Africa plain,
I'll think of thee, sweet Greta Du Taine."

Her eyes were full of awe and wonder. "Lor! you don't mean to say you made
up that by yourself?"

The poet nodded. "Reckon about as much. Like it?"

"It's perfect lovely! Better than they 'ave in the penny books."

"Where Coralline and the Marquis are playin' the spooney game, and 'im
with a Lady Reginer up 'is dirty sleeve. An' there's another thing I want
you to let 'er know." His eyes were on hers, his breath fanned her hot
cheeks. "There isn't another woman on the earth but her for me. Dessay
there may be others; wot I say is--I don't see 'em!" He waved his hand,
dismissing the ardent creatures.

A pang transpierced the conscience hiding under the cheap flowery blouse.
Emigration Jane hesitated, biting the dog's-eared finger-ends of a cotton
glove. Should she tell this ardent, chivalrous lover that the Convent roof
no longer sheltered the magnificent fair hair-plait and the mischievous
blue eyes of his adored? That Miss Greta Du Taine had left for
Johannesburg with the latest batch of departing pupils! If she told, W.
Keyse would vanish out of her life, it might be for ever; or, if by chance
encountered on the street, pass by with a casual greeting and a touch of
the cheap Panama. Emigration Jane was no heroine, only a daughter of Eve.
Arithmetic and what was termed the "tonic sofa" had been more sternly
inculcated than the moral virtues at the Board School in Kentish Town. And
she was not long in making up her mind that she would not tell him--not
just yet, anyway.

What was he saying, in the Cockney that cut like a knife through the