"That's not life," she said; "that's musical comedy." Then she lit another cigarette and sat there, watching Sally take off her wet clothes; smiled at her, catching the garments with the tips of her fingers, and shuddering when they touched her skin.
"You're too sensitive for this business, Sally," she said at last.
"You're too romantic.

Why don't you get married ?" "I wish I could," said Sally.
"Well, you don't take your chances." "What chances ?" "Mr.Arthur--" They both laughed.

Mr.Arthur Montagu was a bank clerk, lodging in the same house on Strand-on-Green.

He had had the same room for over three years and had, through various stages of acquaintanceship, come to be addressed by the landlady as Mr.Arthur.
For the first few weeks after the arrival of Sally and Janet, he had chosen to take his meals in the kitchen--where all meals were served--after they had finished.

His, was a bed-sitting-room, the only one the house contained, and, in social status, the possession of it lifted him in rank above any of the other lodgers who shared the general sitting-room with the landlady, Mrs.Hewson, and her husband.
But one evening, Sally and he had returned together from Hammersmith on the tram.