If his mother had been up-stairs she would have known what to do now. She had always known what to do somehow. And suddenly there crossed his mind a vision of her taking into the house a poor starved dog that had been hooted down the road by the village boys.
Yes, she would have known what to do. But she was not up-stairs.
“I s’pose there’s plenty as wouldn’t mind a-catchin’ their death,” murmured he, half to himself. “Folk as ’ave made a mess of it, or as ’aven’t got no one to work for.”
The girl at the fire threw up her head almost proudly.
“I ain’t what yer might think,” she said. “I ain’t done nothin’ wus than starve. They turned me off at the factory, but it weren’t no fault o’ mine.”
“Weren’t ye drunk?” asked the boy simply.
Her wan face flushed purple.
“Drunk!” said she. “I ain’t never been drunk in my life.” And she moved from him.
Then he flushed too—ashamed.
“I beg yer pardon,” he stammered. “It’s what they turn me off for—but o’ course ... I beg yer pardon!”