of entertainment are emptied into the streets.

Mavis stole a glance at the man beside her. Her eye fell on his
opera hat, the rich fur lining of his overcoat; lastly, on his face.
His whole atmosphere suggested ample means, self-confidence, easy
content with life. Then she looked at her cloak, the condition of
which was now little removed from shabbiness. The pressure of her
feet on the floor of the cab reminded her how sadly her shoes were
down at heel. The contrast between their two states irked Mavis: she
was resentful at the fact of his possessing all the advantages in
life of which she had been deprived. If he had been visited with the
misfortune that had assailed her, and if she had been left
scathless, it would not have been so bad: he was a man, who could
have fought for his own hand, without being hindered by the
obstacles which weigh so heavily on those of her own sex, who seek
to win for themselves a foothold on the slippery inclines of life.
She found herself hating him more for his prosperity than for the
way in which he had insulted her.

"Have you changed your mind?" asked Windebank presently.

"No."

"Likely to?"

"No."

"We can't talk here, and a fog's coming up. Wouldn't you like
something to eat?"