They were coming out of the matinee, and there was something in the way
he took her arm and swung her out of the crush, that the experienced
eye of the married man or married woman could at once detect as the
assurance of the husband, accustomed to being adored, and quietly and
covertly conscious of other feminine eyes in the crowd.
He turned up her fur collar and they walked along in silence. She was
scrutinizing each face in the slowly moving throng. He was picking
his way, falling in her wake to give room to the opposing stream, and
occasionally to glance behind and strengthen some impression of a
silhouette, that awoke a momentary pang, and then faded into the blur
of faces, the rustle of silks and the subtle perfume of a well dressed
crowd of women.
Once he turned half round sharply, as a tall, handsome woman swept
by, creaking and rustling like a great galleon in a swell of wind
and rolling sea. His wife brought back his eyes with a glance of
interrogation.
“Pretty little green hat, that,” he said. “I think it would just suit
you.”
“Ah yes,” answered she. “Strange you never notice hats in the
milliners’ windows.”