“Tell Miss Chartley,” he said. “No, don’t tell her anything. Here, let me out.”
Bob ran to the ponderous old door, and stood holding it open with his eyes glittering as he stared at the visitor, till he had hurried out with his hat set very much on one side, and walked sharply away.
“Thought he’d want the bob again,” said the boy. “Just do for the old gal. Well, I’m blessed!”
This last consequent upon his catching sight of a shabby-looking figure in black, with a damaged bonnet, and a weirdly dissipated look, rising slowly into sight up the area-steps, and then coming out of the creaking gate to the boy, who grew more serious the nearer the figure came.
It was not a pleasant face to look upon, for it was not over-clean; the black and grey hair was ill-arranged, and the eyes that shone above the flushed cheeks belied the woman sadly if they did not tell the truth about potations.
“Why, Bob, my darling,” she said, with an exaggerated fawning smile, “and how is my bonny boy?”
“Here stow that, mother,” cried the lad, struggling from an embrace. “Don’t! Can’t yer see I’ve been brushing my hair?”
“Yes, and it looks beautiful, ducky. I’ve been knocking ever so long at the hairy door, and that fine madam saw me, and wouldn’t let me in.”
“No; she says I ain’t never to let you in no more.”
“Not let me in no more to see my own boy?”