They had walked till they had reached a wharf, just above a lock. There an empty barge, painted with a red and yellow cabin hood, but with a long, coal-black hold, was lying moored. A man, lean and grimy, was sitting on a box against the cabin-side by the door, smoking, and nursing a baby that was wrapped in a drab shawl, and looking into the glow of evening. A woman bustled out, sent a pail dashing into the canal, drew her water, and bustled in again. Children’s voices were heard. A thin blue smoke ascended from the cabin chimney, there was a smell of cooking.
Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky lingered by her. The man glanced up.
“Good evening,” he called, half impudent, half attracted. He had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy face.
“Good evening,” said Ursula, delighted. “Isn’t it nice now?”
“Ay,” said the man, “very nice.”
His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache. His teeth were white as he laughed.
“Oh, but—” stammered Ursula, laughing, “it is. Why do you say it as if it weren’t?”
“’Appen for them as is childt-nursin’ it’s none so rosy.”
“May I look inside your barge?” asked Ursula.
“There’s nobody’ll stop you; you come if you like.”