“No, no, no! pray don’t say so,” sobbed a voice at his elbow. “It’s bad enough, I know; but not so bad as that, please!” And then a burst of sobs choked the speaker’s utterance.
Septimus started, for the voice seemed familiar, and he saw beside him a tall, well-dressed female, with a thick wool-veil drawn down over her face, so that he could not distinguish her features.
“I knew you again, Mr—Mr—Mr—you did tell me your name, but I’ve forgotten it; and I asked him, and he said—but dear, dear,” she sobbed, “can you see that I have been crying? And have you been in that dreadful place?”
“Yes,” replied Septimus; “but I really do not know to whom I am talking.”
“O dear, O dear!” sobbed the woman, “it’s me; you know me, that you called on in Chiswell-street; and I can’t take up my fall, for my poor eyes are so red with crying, and people would see. Registry—office for servants, you know; and O dear, O dear!” and she sobbed more loudly than ever.
“Indeed, I beg your pardon,” said Septimus kindly; “but I could not know you through that thick veil.”
“Then you could not see that I had been crying?” sobbed the poor woman.
“No, indeed,” replied Septimus, “and—”
“Don’t speak to me yet,” ejaculated Miss Tollicks; “I’m almost heart-broken, and you set me off saying those cruel words. I’d give anything for a place where I could sit down and have a good cry, if it was only a doorstep, where people could not see me. I’m nearly blind now, and can’t tell which way to go. It’s ever so much worse than any trouble I ever had with my business.”
“Take my arm,” said Septimus gently, after an apologetic glance at his shabby clothes. “Lean upon me, and we’ll walk slowly down this street. It is quieter here, and you will feel relieved soon.”