"I suppose you know Miss Gailey is practically starving," she said abruptly, harshly, staring at the gutter.
She had leapt. Life seemed to leave her. She had not intended to use such words, nor such a tone. She certainly did not suppose that he knew about Miss Gailey's condition. She had affirmed to Janet Orgreave her absolute assurance that he did not know. As for the tone, it was accusing, it was brutal, it was full of the unconscious and terrible clumsy cruelty of youth.
"What?" His head moved sharply sideways, to look at her.
"Miss Gailey--she's starving, it seems!" Hilda said timidly now, almost apologetically. "I felt sure you didn't know. I thought some one should tell you."
"What do you mean--starving?" he asked gruffly.
"Not enough to eat," she replied, with the direct simplicity of a child.
"And how did this tale get about?"
"It's true," she said. "I was told to-night."
"Who told you?"
"A friend of mine--who's seen her!"