Nancy was working herself into a nervous, excited state. She felt it
impossible to walk on and on under Barmby's protection, listening to
his atrocious commonplaces, his enthusiasms of the Young Men's
Debating Society. The glow of midsummer had entered into her blood;
she resolved to taste independence, to mingle with the limitless
crowd as one of its units, borne in whatever direction. That song of
the streets pleased her, made sympathetic appeal to her; she would
have liked to join in it.

Just behind her--it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall--some
one spoke her name.

'Miss. Lord! Why, who would have expected to see you here? Shouldn't
have dared to think of such a thing; upon my word, I shouldn't!'

A man of about thirty, dressed without much care, middle-sized,
wiry, ruddy of cheek, and his coarse but strong features vivid with
festive energy, held a hand to her. Luckworth Crewe was his name.
Nancy had come to know him at the house of Mrs. Peachey, where from
time to time she had met various people unrecognised in her own
home. His tongue bewrayed him for a native of some northern county;
his manner had no polish, but a genuine heartiness which would have
atoned for many defects. Horace, who also knew him, offered a
friendly greeting; but Samuel Barmby, when the voice caught his ear,
regarded this intruder with cold surprise.

'May I walk on with you?' Crewe asked, when he saw that Miss. Lord
felt no distaste for his company.