Lady Seveley smiled, Frank thought the words presumptuous. "Who the
devil would care to hear you talk--and that filthy accent." And at
that moment he remembered Lizzie Baker. Fletcher and Harding were now
speaking to Lady Seveley, and taking advantage of the circumstance he
slipped out, and, lighting a cigarette, entered the bar room. Behind
the counter the young ladies stood in single file, and through odours
of cigarettes and whisky their voices called "One coffee in order,"
and the cry was passed on till it reached the still-room. Frank
remembered having read a description of the place somewhere, he
thought for a moment, and then he remembered that it was in one of
Harding's novels. He could detect no difference in the loafers that
leaned over the counter talking to the barmaids; they were dingy and
dull, whereas the young men from the stalls of the theatre were black
and white and clean; but the keenest eye could note nothing further,
and a closer inspection showed that even a first division rested on no
deeper basis than the chance of evening dress. Civilisation has given
us all one face and mind. He walked to where Lizzie was serving;
soldiers were ordering drinks of her, so he was obliged to apply to
the next girl to her for his brandy and soda. He drank slowly, hoping
her admirers would leave her, but one soldier was stationery, and this
spot of red grew singularly offensive in Frank's eyes, from the
clumsy, characterless boots, to the close-clipped hair set off with
the monotonously jaunty cap. The man sprawled over the counter
drinking a glass of porter. Frank tried to listen to what he was
saying. Lizzie smiled, showing many beautifully shaped teeth, so
beautifully shaped that they looked like sculpture. Behind her there
were shelves charged with glasses and bottles, gilt elephants, and
obelisks, a hideous decoration; she passed up and down with cups of
coffee, she filled glasses from various taps, she saluted Frank.