The meeting which Jack was attending had began to sing a hymn. The voices, harmonised by distance, sounded pleasantly.
'I like that hymn-tune, Mr. Bunce,' said Totty, 'don't you?'
'I don't think much about hymns, Miss Nancarrow.'
'Well, you might say you like it.'
'I do, to tell the truth—so long as I can't hear the words.'
'I don't care nothing about the words, either. So we agree about something, at all events.'
'I don't think we've differed about many things, have we?'
She looked at him frankly, and smiled. Then she said:
'Oh, you used to be a bit afraid of me, I know. Shall I tell you what it was made us real friends? It was when you burnt your hand, and I did it up for you.'
Bunce now returned her look, and his swarthy cheeks reddened. His eyes fell again.