to her corner and opened her note-book ready to record her
impressions.
Twelve
o'clock. The first hour has passed almost too quickly. I've drawn a complete
blank. Not a blessed thing to record. Not a vestige of reaction. The waxworks
seem a commonplace lot, without a scrap of hypnotic force. In fact, they're
altogether too matey.
Sonia had
left her corner, to write her entry in the light which streamed through the
window. Smoking was prohibited in the building, and, lest she should yield to
temptation, she had left both her cigarettes and matches behind her, on the
office table.
At this
stage she regretted the matches. A little extra light would be a boon. It was
true she carried an electric torch, but she was saving it, in case of
emergency.
It was a
loan from young Wells. As they were leaving the office together, he spoke to
her confidentially.
'Did you
notice how Poke glared at you? Don't get up against him. He's a nasty piece of
work. He's so mean he'd sell his mother's shroud for old rags. And he's a cruel
little devil, too. He turned out his miserable pup, to starve in the streets,
rather than cough up for the licence.'
Sonia grew
hot with indignation.
'What he
needs to cure his complaint is a strong dose of rat-poison,' she declared.
'What
became of the poor little dog?'
'Oh, he's
all right. He was a matey chap, and he soon chummed up with a mongrel of his
own class.'
'You?'
asked Sonia, her eyes suddenly soft.
'A mongrel,
am I?' grinned Wells. 'Well, anyway, the pup will get a better Christmas than
his first, when Poke went away and left him on the chain . . . We're both of us
going to over-eat and over-drink. You're on your own, too. Won't you join us?'
'I'd love
to.'
Although
the evening was warm and muggy the invitation suffused Sonia with the spirit of
Christmas. The shade of Dickens seemed to be hovering over the parade of the
streets. A red-nosed Santa Claus presided over a spangled Christmas-tree
outside a toy-shop. Windows were hung with tinselled balls and coloured paper
festoons. Pedestrians, laden with parcels, called out seasonable greetings.
'Merry
Christmas.'
Young
Wells' three-cornered smile was his tribute to the joyous feeling of festival.
His eyes were eager as he turned to Sonia.
'I've an
idea. Don't wait until after the holidays to write up the Waxworks. Make it a
Christmas stunt, and go there tonight.'
'I will,'
declared Sonia.
It was then
that he slipped the torch into her hand.
'I know you
belong to the stronger sex,' he said. 'But even your nerve might crash. If it
does, just flash this torch under the window. Stretch out your arm above your
head, and the light will be seen from the street.'
'And what
will happen then?' asked Sonia.
'I shall
knock up the miserable porter and let you out.'
'But how
will you see the light?'
'I shall be
in the street.'
'All
night?'
'Yes; I
sleep there' Young Wells grinned. 'Understand,' he added loftily, 'that this is
a matter of principle. I could not let any woman—even one so aged and
unattractive as yourself—feel beyond the reach of help.'
He cut into
her thanks as he turned away with a parting warning.
'Don't use
the torch for light, or the juice may give out. It's about due for a new
battery.'
As Sonia
looked at the torch, lying by her side, it seemed a link with young Wells. At
this moment he was patrolling the street, a sturdy figure in old tweed
overcoat, with his cap pulled down over his eyes.
As she
tried to pick out his footsteps from among those of the other passers-by, it
struck her that there was plenty of traffic, considering that it was past
twelve o'clock.
'The
witching hour of midnight is another lost illusion,' she reflected. 'Killed by
night-clubs, I suppose.'
It was
cheerful to know that so many citizens were abroad, to keep her company. Some
optimists were still singing carols. She faintly heard the strains of 'Good
King Wenceslas.' It was in a tranquil frame of mind that she unpacked her
sandwiches and
impressions.
Twelve
o'clock. The first hour has passed almost too quickly. I've drawn a complete
blank. Not a blessed thing to record. Not a vestige of reaction. The waxworks
seem a commonplace lot, without a scrap of hypnotic force. In fact, they're
altogether too matey.
Sonia had
left her corner, to write her entry in the light which streamed through the
window. Smoking was prohibited in the building, and, lest she should yield to
temptation, she had left both her cigarettes and matches behind her, on the
office table.
At this
stage she regretted the matches. A little extra light would be a boon. It was
true she carried an electric torch, but she was saving it, in case of
emergency.
It was a
loan from young Wells. As they were leaving the office together, he spoke to
her confidentially.
'Did you
notice how Poke glared at you? Don't get up against him. He's a nasty piece of
work. He's so mean he'd sell his mother's shroud for old rags. And he's a cruel
little devil, too. He turned out his miserable pup, to starve in the streets,
rather than cough up for the licence.'
Sonia grew
hot with indignation.
'What he
needs to cure his complaint is a strong dose of rat-poison,' she declared.
'What
became of the poor little dog?'
'Oh, he's
all right. He was a matey chap, and he soon chummed up with a mongrel of his
own class.'
'You?'
asked Sonia, her eyes suddenly soft.
'A mongrel,
am I?' grinned Wells. 'Well, anyway, the pup will get a better Christmas than
his first, when Poke went away and left him on the chain . . . We're both of us
going to over-eat and over-drink. You're on your own, too. Won't you join us?'
'I'd love
to.'
Although
the evening was warm and muggy the invitation suffused Sonia with the spirit of
Christmas. The shade of Dickens seemed to be hovering over the parade of the
streets. A red-nosed Santa Claus presided over a spangled Christmas-tree
outside a toy-shop. Windows were hung with tinselled balls and coloured paper
festoons. Pedestrians, laden with parcels, called out seasonable greetings.
'Merry
Christmas.'
Young
Wells' three-cornered smile was his tribute to the joyous feeling of festival.
His eyes were eager as he turned to Sonia.
'I've an
idea. Don't wait until after the holidays to write up the Waxworks. Make it a
Christmas stunt, and go there tonight.'
'I will,'
declared Sonia.
It was then
that he slipped the torch into her hand.
'I know you
belong to the stronger sex,' he said. 'But even your nerve might crash. If it
does, just flash this torch under the window. Stretch out your arm above your
head, and the light will be seen from the street.'
'And what
will happen then?' asked Sonia.
'I shall
knock up the miserable porter and let you out.'
'But how
will you see the light?'
'I shall be
in the street.'
'All
night?'
'Yes; I
sleep there' Young Wells grinned. 'Understand,' he added loftily, 'that this is
a matter of principle. I could not let any woman—even one so aged and
unattractive as yourself—feel beyond the reach of help.'
He cut into
her thanks as he turned away with a parting warning.
'Don't use
the torch for light, or the juice may give out. It's about due for a new
battery.'
As Sonia
looked at the torch, lying by her side, it seemed a link with young Wells. At
this moment he was patrolling the street, a sturdy figure in old tweed
overcoat, with his cap pulled down over his eyes.
As she
tried to pick out his footsteps from among those of the other passers-by, it
struck her that there was plenty of traffic, considering that it was past
twelve o'clock.
'The
witching hour of midnight is another lost illusion,' she reflected. 'Killed by
night-clubs, I suppose.'
It was
cheerful to know that so many citizens were abroad, to keep her company. Some
optimists were still singing carols. She faintly heard the strains of 'Good
King Wenceslas.' It was in a tranquil frame of mind that she unpacked her
sandwiches and
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