It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. Hobson was not 147 amused by the situation, which handled wrongly, could lose him his job. The perfume was the only one she ever used. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. Dump popped his head into the cage. But there have been times, Anna, when your work has startled me. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world.
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