"Don't be. I'm always afraid of being sorry or glad because you don't know what will happen. Father leaving us like that, making her miserable—it's given you to me." She looked up at him. "The world's difficult."
"Always; but there are times when it is good. Helen—"
Eliza entered, walking heavily in creaking boots, and when Helen looked at her, she wondered at the tinker. Eliza was hard-featured: she had not much hair, and on it a cap hung precariously. Spreading a cloth on a small table, she went about her business slowly, carrying one thing at a time and leaving the door open as a protest against Helen's presence.
"Who'll pour?" she asked.
"You can leave the table there."
"They were out of sugar cakes. I got buns."
He looked at them. "If that's the best they can do, they ought to be ashamed of themselves."
"If you want cakes you should get them in the morning. I've kept the change to pay the milkman."
With a flourish of the cosy Zebedee turned to Helen as the door was shut.
"Isn't she dreadful?"