Kirke was waiting in the hall for Bastien at closing time. The last straggler had gone. The place was quiet save for the sound of coins being emptied out of the cash register. Kirke wondered very much what had been taken in that day. His mind dwelt for a moment with scorn on the absent owner of The Duke of York who trusted his affairs to Bastien.
The manager came out with his cool, alert air and locked the bar behind him.
"Weel," observed Kirke, "it's a fine nicht."
"Yes," agreed Bastien, putting the key in his pocket. "It begins to feel like spring."
Kirke came close to him, his shrewd light eyes concentrated on Bastien's face. He said in a low tone:
"That's a fine geerl. The one they call Delight, eh?"
A roguish grin slid over Bastien's face and left it impassive as ever.
"You, too? You'll need to step lively."
"I'm not thinking of myself. I'm thinking of the hotel. There's not a man in town but has his eye on her. They're discussing her points. In the little room behind the chemist's, in the tailor shop, the newspaper office, ay, the mayor's office. They can't keep their minds off her. She's come on the town like a blight."
