By this time Madelaine had reached the Vines’ gate and gone in.
“Phew!”
Poll Perrow gave vent to a low whistle, something like the cry of a gull.
“Why, I know!” she muttered. “Miss Madlin’s gone into mourning all along o’ Master Harry. Then my Liza’s a great goose. She was fond of him after all. Why! only to think!”
She turned off down a narrow path, so as to get round to the back door, where she was met by Liza, looking very red and angry.
“Now, what have you come for again? I saw you coming as I let Miss Madlin in, and it’s too bad.”
“Oh, Liza, Liza!” said the fish-woman, “what a wicked girl you are to talk to your poor mother like that!”
“I don’t care whether it’s wicked or whether it arn’t wicked, but I just tell you this: if you come begging again, you may just go back, for you’ll get nothing here. It’s disgraceful; you taking to that.”
“No, no, not begging, my clear,” said Poll, staring at her daughter’s red-brown face, as if lost in admiration. “Lor’, Liza, what a hansum gal you do grow!”
“Now, do adone, mother, and don’t talk like that.”