It was a wet November evening, and Josephine Hay sat by a fire of cheap, bad coal, awaiting her sister’s return from an errand in the City. Their home was the upper part of a shabby little house in West Kensington; here they rented two rooms, back and front, as well as a den on the stairs, which served for cooking—when there was anything to cook. The front apartment was dining-, sitting-room, and studio combined; a deal table, covered with drawing materials, stood in either window, a decrepit horsehair sofa and a deformed cane chair were drawn up to the fire, and between them was placed a tray, with tea-things, as well as half a stale loaf and a pot of apple and blackberry jam.
By the capricious gleams of the smouldering coals, Josephine was counting the contents of her lean leather purse; count as she would, including coppers and one stamp, the grand total came to one pound, three shillings, and seven pence.
She hastily snapped the purse, and turned on the light, as the door opened to admit her sister, who was a wet and miserable spectacle.
“Oh, Rosie, you are drowned!” she cried.
“Not quite”—coming forward and putting down a flat parcel; “it is a dreadful night.” As she spoke, she peeled off her damp gloves with tender care, and then proceeded to remove her boots. Meanwhile Josephine prepared to make tea.
“There’s a boot for you!” Rose said, exhibiting a small dilapidated specimen; “it’s like a cullender—they both are; no charwoman would own them!”
“And your stockings are soaking!”
“Oh, they will dry on,” was the courageous answer, and she held her well-darned hose to the fire.
“No luck, I suppose?” said Josephine after a moment’s silence.