The Walterton Road is a dreary thoroughfare, which, in respect of unloveliness, if not of length, leaves Harley Street, condemned of the poet, far behind.
It is lined on either side with little sordid gray houses, characterized by tall flights of steps and bow-windows, these latter having for frequent adornment cards proclaiming the practice of various humble occupations, from the letting of lodgings to the tuning of pianos.
About half way up the street Judith stopped the omnibus, and mounted the steps to a house some degrees less dreary-looking than the majority of its neighbours. Fresh white curtains hung in the clean windows, while steps, scraper and doorbell bore witness to the hand of labour.
Mrs. Quixano herself opened the door to her daughter, and drew her by the hand into the sitting-room, across the little hall to which still clung the odour of the midday mutton.
“Many happy returns of the day, mamma,” said Judith, kissing her and offering her parcel.
“I am sure it is very good of you to remember, my dear,” answered her mother, leaning back in her chair and taking in every detail of the girl’s appearance; her gown, her bonnet, the tinge of sunburn on her fresh young cheek, a certain indescribable air of softness, of maidenliness which was hers to-day.
Israel Leuniger’s sister was a stout, comely woman of middle-age; red-haired, white-skinned, plump, with a projecting under-lip and comfortable double chin.
She was disappointed with her life, but she made the best of it; loving her husband, though unable to sympathize with him; planning, working unremittingly for her six children; extracting the utmost benefit from the narrowest of means; a capable person who did her duty according to her own lights.
“So Reuben Sachs has come back,” she said, after some conversation.
Judith glanced up quickly with a bright, gentle look.