She was not built upon a beauteous plan; I did not like her face or features much,The lady who was talking to the man Behind the little hutch.
But something fine about her, something free, Kept me in rapture gazing well content,While Time rolled onwards to Eternity And trains arrived and went.
Merely her cheek it was--like some fair flower Blooming in that illimitable cave;She seemed to think the station was her bower, The booking-clerk her slave.
She did not seem to heed the traffic's sound Nor the dull cries behind her, moan on moan,She seemed to think the Electric Underground Was gouged for her alone.
Lightly she stood and talked, now rash, now coy, Touching the purchase of her cardboard gage;She toyed with that young man as children toy With coneys in a cage.
I had not been surprised to see her drag (So deaf she seemed to all besides her whim)Lettuces out of her portentous bag And poke them through to him.
I said she kept me charmed, though others swore; Still there are limits; men have work to do;One cannot linger spellbound evermore, Not on the Bakerloo.
And so my murmurs swelled at last the bruit Of clamorous men behind, a restive swarm,Nor caring greatly what infernal route Carried her precious form.
If only she would choose, and choose quite quick; For all the tides of London's life were still,And the hushed gates, forgetful how to click, Paused for her sovran will.
Joy came at last: she plunged for Gloucester Road, And raked her reticule with dubious frown,Harried the hundred gauds therein bestowed And fished up half-a-crown,
And lingering, took her change and turned away; But not before she flashed, as women can,One glance at me--one glance that seemed to say, "You are no gentleman."
No gentleman indeed! I followed her Musing, "Has Justice, have the gods forgot?"Ah well! the bolts of Ate sometimes err, But this time they did not.
O soothing balsam for a bosom's sore! Out of her careless hand, I'm pleased to say,She dropped that ticket on the tube-lift floor; I left it where it lay.
