Producing his cigarette case and exchanging her cigarette for one of his own. I’ll never smoke that.
Lily.
Pushing the match-stand towards him. Stoopid! Now, attend to me. What do you say to a tiny provision shop in Kennington, over the water?
Farncombe.
Was that——?
Lily.
Nodding. H’m; that was my start in the world. Father kept a small shop in Kennington—Gladwin Street, near the Oval. We sold groceries, and butter and eggs and cheese, and pickled-pork and paraffin. I was born there—on the second floor; and in Gladwin Street I lived till I was fourteen. Then father smashed, through the Stores cutting into our little trade. Well, hardly smashed; that’s too imposing. The business just faded, and one morning we didn’t bother to take the shutters down. Then, after a while, father got a starvation berth—eighteen shillings a week!—at a wholesale bacon warehouse—Price and Moseley’s—still over the water; and I earned an extra five at a place in the Westminster Bridge Road, for pasting the gilt edges on to passe-partouts from nine a.m. till six in the evening.
Farncombe.
His head bowed again. Great heavens!
Lily.