She named her address, a wretched little row of tenement houses some ten score yards away.
‘What’s your trade?’
‘Me trade, is it?’ she answered, with a feeble, good-humoured laugh. ‘Tis not much of a trade, anyhow; I’m a street-walker.’
She made the statement wholly commonplace in tone, and gave it with as little reluctance or embarrassment as if she had laid claim to the most respectable calling in the world.
The assistant stared and laughed, but she caught Paul’s look of amazed horror.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘why wouldn’t I be? I’ll go to hell for it, av coorse, for that’s God’s will on all of us. Tis hard lines, too, for ‘tis none so fine a life when ye’ve tried ut. Thank ye kindly, both of yez. I’d pay ye for ut, but ye’d not be takin’ a poor girl’s last shillin’, I know, from the good-tempered purty face of ye.’
‘You’re sweetly welcome,’ said the assistant, busily washing his hands at the sink, and looking sideways at her. ‘You’re a queer fish, any way.’
‘’Tis a queer fish I am,’ she answered, ‘an’ by-an’-by they’ll have the cookin’ of me. Fried soul,’ she said, with a faint laugh. ‘Begobs! that’s funny; I never thought o’that before. Fried soul!’
‘How old are you?’ the assistant asked.
‘Faith,’ she said, ‘I’m just past two-an’-twinty. ‘Tis an agein’ life, an’ I look more; but ‘tis God’s truf I’m tellin’ ye.’