The room was quiet now, Mrs. Wilson had stopped crying, and Mary's mind, confused by the unaccustomed nature of the facts presented to it, and their incompleteness, wandered foolishly between the problem of her own responsibility for the distress of the poor and the probable nature of Florrie's offence. She was also harassed by a recurring recognition of the stuffiness of the room.
She had decided, vaguely, that there must always be rich and poor, because there isn't enough money to go round—though we ought to do more than we do—and also that Miss Percival was probably right, and Florrie had been detected taking presents from customers, when Florrie came in. Mary did not recognise her for an instant—the figure in the doorway lacked the good looks of the girl at Chelsea—then she saw that Florrie was merely looking shabby and ill.
"Good morning, my dear," she said, resolved now, at least, to do more than her duty, "I'm glad you've come back."
Florrie came forward into the middle of the room. Her expression, Mary thought, was almost sullen. She jerked her head towards her mother. "She told you?" she asked.
"Nothing that I could understand. Your mother is very unhappy, Florrie!"
"That you may well say, ma'm, me own daughter treating me like this!" added Mrs. Wilson, who had assumed an air of self-righteousness and freed herself from the shelter of Miss Percival's arm.
Mary spoke hastily to interrupt her. "I am sure you will prefer to tell us yourself."
Florrie took off her hat and put it down on the table. Then she arranged the tips of her fingers in a neat line along a crack in the wood. Finally, without looking up, she began to speak. "'E's been followin' me 'ome every night for the last month," she said. "Time and again I've asked 'im not to, an' I've tried to run away from 'im, an' once I took the bus, but 'e knew I couldn't go on with that. An' none of the others don't come my way. An' 'e's offered me everything you can think of, jewels an' choclits and take me to the theatre, an' a glace silk dress, an' I wouldn't take one, because I saw what 'e was after, the dirty beast. An' I never 'ad no drinks with 'im, only once an ice off a barrer. That was fore I knew 'im well. An' I've cried in the street, I've been that wild with 'im. 'E knew I'd no one could do anything to 'im. 'E's called at the 'ouse even, an' told 'er downstairs I'd invited 'im! Me invite fellows up 'ere!" Florrie looked up at this. Her eyes were red.
She did not go on for a minute, her hands were trembling, though she was pressing them against the table to keep them still.
The silence was broken by Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson seemed excited; she was leaning forward, her shawl dragged tightly round her shoulders, nodding eagerly at each of Florrie's phrases.