Jenny’s face was never pale, spite of the mephytic gases of Gutter-alley; but the rosy flush upon it deepened as a step was heard upon the stairs, followed by a tap at the door.
A querulous “Come in!” from old Dick, and then a tall, stout young fellow entered, bearing a basket of violets, whose sweet fragrance filled the room.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Harry?” said the old man. “Had you got money enough?”
“O yes, plenty; but I spent it all,” was the reply. “The flowers are rare and fresh this morning.”
“That’s right, Harry—that’s right,” quavered the old man. “Set ’em down—set ’em down. And now what’s to pay?”
“Pay? What for?” was the rather gruff response, as the new-comer looked hard the while at Jenny.
“For your trouble, Harry. You ought to take something for your trouble.”
“’Tisn’t trouble!” said the young man, more gently, still looking hard at Jenny, who never raised her eyes from her work. “When I’m at market, as I’ve often said before, it isn’t much to bring home a few bunches of flowers. I should like to bring them every morning, if I may.”
He still glanced at Jenny, as if he hoped that the permission might come from her; but she made no sign, and old Dick himself broke the awkward silence by thanking the young man once more, and he then took his departure with a disappointed aspect.
The flower-bearer slowly descended the stairs, nettled at the calm, patronising manner adopted by the old man.