She threw a glance towards the bar.
‘Will you have a bottle o’ lemonade?’ Daniel asked.
‘It’s very kind of you. I’ve a sort o’ fainty feeling. If you’d just put ever such a little drop in it, Mr. Dabbs.’
Daniel betrayed a slight annoyance. But he went to the door and gave the order.
‘Still at the same place?’ he asked on resuming his seat.
‘Emma, you mean? Yes, but it’s only been half a week’s work, this last. And I’ve as good as nothing to do. There’s the children runnin’ about with no soles to their feet.’
The lemonade—with a dash in it—was brought to her, and she refreshed herself with a deep draught. Perhaps the dash was not perceptible enough; she did not seem entirely satisfied, though pretending to be so.
‘Suppose I come round to-night and ask her myself?’ Daniel said, as the result of a short reflection.
‘It ‘ud be kind of you if you would, Mr. Dabbs. I’m afraid she’ll tell me she can’t afford to lose the day.’
He consulted his watch, then again reflected, still drumming on the table.