"I don't understand all that rigmarole about truth," she concluded, "but
I'm no sort of a one at pretense. Outside, my man, and stay outside!"
She slammed the door. Burton found himself in the street. Instinctively he felt that her hasty dismissal was intended to conceal from him the torrent of tears which were imminent. A little dazed, he still groped his way to the spot where Ellen had thrown the beans. A man was there with a fruit barrow, busy, apparently, rearranging his stock. Something about his appearance struck Burton with a chill premonition. He came to a standstill and looked at him.
"Did you wish to buy any fruit, sir?" the man asked, in a tone unusually subdued for one of his class.
Burton shook his head.
"I was just wondering what you were doing," he remarked.
The man hesitated.
"To tell you the truth, guvnor," he confessed, "I was mixing up my apples and bananas a bit. You see, those at the top were all the best, and it has been my custom to add a few from underneath there—most of them a little going off. It was the only way," he added with a sigh, "that one could make a profit. I have made up my mind, though, to either throw them away or sell them separately for what they are worth, which isn't much. I've had enough of deceiving the public. If I can't get a living honestly with this barrow, I'll try another job."
"Do you happen to have eaten anything just lately?" Burton asked him, with a sinking heart.
The man looked at his questioner, for a moment, doubtfully.
"'Ad my breakfast at seven," he replied. "Just a bite of bread and cheese since, with my morning beer."