The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. . The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. “It’s very good,” she said. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. That was something in his favour. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes.
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