She nodded her head.
"My aunt is staying with me," she explained, "but she's gone to bed. She's got my bedroom. The mater's gone to bed. I'm sleeping on the floor in the drawing-room. I was sitting there. Come in."
He followed her into the drawing-room. There was her bed upon the floor--a mattress, sheets and blanket. That was all.
"You're sleeping there?" he said.
She said--"hm" with a little jerk of the head, in the most natural way in the world. If he thought he knew what it was to be poor, he flattered himself. He had been without meals, but he had never slept on the floor.
"Isn't it hard?" he questioned. "Do you go to sleep at all?"
She laughed gently under her breath.
"Good heavens, yes! I'm used to it. But what have you come for?"
She sat down in a heap, like a journeyman tailor, upon her bed, and gazed up at him. At first, he did not know how to say it. Then he blurted it out.
"I want you to come back again to see me in Fetter Lane."