Monica walked away to the bookstall. When she had joined her sister, she became aware that Miss Eade was keeping her in sight.
“Let us buy a book,” she said, “and go home again. The rain won’t stop.”
They selected a cheap volume, and, having their return tickets, moved towards the departure platform. Before she could reach the gates Monica heard Miss Eade’s voice just behind her; it had changed again, and the appealing note reminded her of many conversations in Walworth Road.
“Do tell me! I beg your pardon for bein’ rude. Don’t go without telling me.”
The meaning of this importunity had already flashed upon Monica, and now she felt a slight pity for the tawdry, abandoned creature, in whom there seemed to survive that hopeless passion of old days.
“My name,” she said abruptly, “is Mrs. Widdowson.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“I have told you what you wish to know. I can’t talk—”
“And you don’t really know nothing about him?”
“Nothing whatever.”