She went out of the room. Amid the din of "There you are, there you are, there you ain't—ain't—ain't," Sally heard her call: "Perce, what's the name Maggie Merrick calls herself now?" There was a silence. The door of the other room was closed. Sally, standing by the kitchen table, drying a plate, strained her ears unavailingly. A silence was upon the flat. Only the fire huskily caved in, and little darting sparks flew into the air. It was as though her life hung suspended. Then, in a few minutes, Mrs. Perce returned, a triumphant beam upon her face. "You go and see Maggie on Monday," she said. "I'll write her a letter. She calls herself Gala—Madame Gala. Got a place round behind Regent Street, and about twenty hands. She's a very old friend of mine.... I'll give you a letter to-night. Just say you come from Polly Barrow. She'll see you. Course, I can't be sure...."
"No, no!" Sally's concurrence was eager. Her heart was like a flame. "You are kind to me, Mrs. Perce."
"If I can help you, Sally...." Mrs. Perce's voice took on a tone of kindness almost solemn. "Well, that's all right. Just wait till these things are washed."
Trembling, Sally introduced her other problem. At first Mrs. Perce gave a great laugh, and looked very sharply at Sally. She looked at her dress, at her face, at her hair.
"I don't want to look...."
"It wouldn't help you to look made-up. Not with Maggie. So there is a boy!"
"No!" Sally's tone was fierce.
"Oh, all right." Mrs. Perce was evidently not altogether convinced. She dried her hands, her head consideringly upon one side.
"Who'd look at me?" There was a vain effort in this speech to corroborate the disclaimer; but there was also an ingenuous and pathetic appeal for some sort of reassurance, for this was Sally's hidden fear.
"Don't be a fool, Sally. If a girl makes up her mind to have a man...."