"Perhaps!" Steele laughed, not pleasantly. "In my mind's eye, as the
poet says."

"Wot the--!" she retorted elegantly. "'Ere's a swell toff to chawf a
lidy! 'Owever," reflectively, "I'ave 'eard 'e could 'it 'ard!"

"But that," said the gentleman, indicating the tankard, "could hit
harder."

"My hyes; wot's the name of yer missionary friend, ragbags?" to Joe.

"The gentleman's a lawyer, and when I tell you his name is--"

John Steele reached over and stopped the speaker; the woman laughed.

"Perhaps it ayn't syfe to give it!"

Her voice floated back now from the threshold; predominated for a moment
later in one of the corners of the bar leading to the street: "Oi soi,
you cawn't go in for a 'arf of bitters without a bloomin' graveyard mist
comin' up be'ind yer back!" Then the door slammed; the modern prototype
of the "roaring girl" vanished, and another voice--hoarse, that of a
man--was heard:

"The blarsted fog is coming down fast."

For some time the two men in the little back room sat silent; then one
of them leaned over: "She might have asked you that question, eh, Joe?"
The speaker's eyes had turned again to the picture.