“Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for the dear old ’ome.”
“Mike use of ’im,” said Fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair from the dealer. His movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking.
“’Ere’s mother’s cosy chair,” he said. “Warnts a cushion.” And he stood it down on the market stones.
“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” laughed Ursula.
“Oh, I do,” said the young woman.
“’Ave a sit in it, you’ll wish you’d kept it,” said the young man.
Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-place.
“Awfully comfortable,” she said. “But rather hard. You try it.” She invited the young man to a seat. But he turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat.
“Don’t spoil him,” said the young woman. “He’s not used to arm-chairs, ’e isn’t.”
The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin: