But she was not silenced. She ran over the whole scale of objections, moral and conventional, to his proposition, and to each and all of them he found an answer, and sat there quietly persistent, until at last he drove her back upon 'What will people say?'
'As far as I'm concerned they can say what they like, but if you care about people's opinion, it is easy to guard yourself against it by telling them nothing. No one would know more than you chose to tell them.'
'That's honest, isn't it?' asked Mrs Toomey, patting the baby, who was choking himself with his fist.
'Well, honesty doesn't consist in publishing other people's affairs to all your neighbourhood. And, my good Mrs Toomey, don't you see that the very fact of her being in your house would stop questions?'
'I'm no hand at arguing,' said Mrs Toomey at last, 'but I know you've some sense, sir, and I don't think you'd press a thing like this without there was some rhyme or reason in it; but the most I can say is, me and Toomey'll talk it over; but the truth is, I've never had nothing to say to that sort o' girls, and I don't like to begin at this time o' day. And even if my man agrees, I won't promise about it until I've seen the young woman, for what's the good of Providence giving us common sense if we're not to put it to use, instead of trusting to hearsay and other people.'
'Quite right; that's a first-rate principle. If all the world would think like that we should see some changes. I will tell her you have a room to let, and advise her to apply for it, and then you can see her and act as you choose. But I feel sure beforehand how it will be.'
And as he bade her good-bye he did feel quite sure that he had not spent that half-hour in vain.
'I really feel like a City missionary, or a newspaper correspondent, after all these interviews. Now for the last and most interesting.'
But when he reached Mrs Litvinoff's room he found her out. There was no answer to his repeated knocks, so at last, as the key was in the door, he opened it, almost fearing to find her in another of those fainting fits. But the room was empty. He hesitated a moment, and then entered. It wanted a few minutes to noon; he would wait till the appointed time, and while he waited he wondered, as he had been wondering all the morning, why she had taken this name of Litvinoff. Was it simply because Litvinoff had been the first name that had come into her head, or for some deeper or more important reason?
The room was very neat, and did not offer much entertainment to the eye or employment to the mind; but there were four or five books on the mantelpiece, and he was drawn towards them by a natural attraction. It was one of his habits always to take up a book, if one was within reach. They were very nicely bound, he noticed, except two small volumes at the end of the row, in which he smiled rather sadly to recognise a Bible and Prayer Book. He ran over the titles—one or two novels, 'The Children's Garland,' 'Mrs Hemans,' and, strange accompaniment, Swinburne's 'Songs before Sunrise.'