Lively and chattering as they were, it was a human Sahara to him.

He easily recognized the "Ten-Pounder" element of wandering Britons; poor, anxious-eyed beings grudgingly furloughed from shop and desk, and now sternly determined to descend at Charing Cross without breaking into the few reserve sovereigns.

Serious-looking women, clad in many colors, and stolid cockneys, hostile to all foreign innovation, met his eye.

He sighed as he cast his social net and drew up nothing.
There was a vacant chair at his left.

Very shortly, without turning his eyes, he was made aware of the proximity of a woman, young, evidently a continental, from her softly murmured French.
"Houbigant's Forest Violets," he murmured.