CHAPTER XIII.
KIND INQUIRIES.
“So you’ll be going this day week?” remarked Mrs. Gabb, as she bustled in with the lamp. “And I’m sure I can’t wonder; it’s lonely-like for you being here in this room by yourself, and London is where most people goes to—it sort of sucks ’em in.”
“Yes; people who have to earn their bread have a better chance of doing so in London.”
“You’ll go in for governessing, I suppose?”
“No. I’m afraid I am not sufficiently accomplished.”
“Laws! I should have thought you was. But it’s a hard life, and poor pay, and often bad usage. And you do sing beautiful. Your voice sort of gives me a lump in my throat, and many’s the night Gabb and I, and sometimes a friend or two, have stood on the stairs, and listened to you a-playing and singing to that guitar. I’m sure you’d take splendidly at one of the music ’alls, if you could only dance a bit! Stop; what’s that, now? There’s a knock at the door, and the girl’s out.” And she rushed down-stairs, and in a very few seconds I was astonished to hear a manly foot in the passage, and she ushered in “Mr. Somers.”
He looked rather embarrassed, and very grave; whilst I, though almost speechless with surprise, was collected enough as I put down my sewing and rose to meet him.