"Poor dear," said the cook, her pity aroused, "I'll give you a bowl of soup; that's what I'll do."
Meg rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the cooking was almost too much for her, but she revived on drinking the hot soup and looked up smiling at Mrs. Brown.
"I'll pay well for this," she said.
"Tut, tut, my dear. We don't want payment. You ain't fit to sing."
"Yes, I shall be all right in a moment, and when he comes back," nodding her head towards the inner door through which the butler had vanished, "I'll begin."
"Dent's gone with the coffee," said the cook, "and won't be here for a few minutes."
"I feel a lot better," said Meg, "and shall be able to sing fine. I'm making my way towards London to see Bostock," she added.
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, leaning both hands on the kitchen table, and surveying the girl with amazement. "What do your father and mother say to that I should like to know?"
"They don't say nothin' for I've got none."
Mrs. Brown had a kind heart within her somewhat portly body, and looked with concern at her picturesque visitor.