From the next table on the opposite side, a young man had singled
out Saxon. His dress was tough. His companions, male and female,
were tough. His face was inflamed, his eyes touched with
wildness.

"Hey, you!" he called. "You with the velvet slippers. Me for
you."

The girl beside him put her arm around his neck and tried to hush
him, and through the mufflement of her embrace they could hear
him gurgling:

"I tell you she's some goods. Watch me go across an' win her from
them cheap skates."

"Butchertown hoodlums," Mary sniffed.

Saxon's eyes encountered the eyes of the girl, who glared hatred
across at her. And in Billy's eyes she saw moody anger
smouldering. The eyes were more sullen, more handsome than ever,
and clouds and veils and lights and shadowe shifted and deepened
in the blue of them until they gave her a sense of unfathomable
depth. He had stopped talking, and he made no effort to talk.

"Don't start a rough house, Bill," Bert cautioned. "They're from
across the hay an' they don't know you, that's all."

Bert stood up suddenly, stepped over to the other table,
whispered briefly, and came back. Every face at the table was
turned on Billy. The offender arose brokenly, shook off the