She asked his name. He gave it and she hers, Ann Pidduck, and she worked in a factory, pickles and condiments, at the packing, putting wooden boxes together with a machine that drove in four nails at a time. Once she had been ill and sent away and taught the artificial flowers, and she did that too, in her spare time, for some hat-shops in the High Street, and for one or two ladies she knew. She used to live at home with her mother, who had turned religious and couldn’t put up with a bit of fun. And she had a friend who lived in these rooms when there were still horses in the mews, but the friend had gone out to Canada on a farm, “where you get married at once if you’re anything like.” She broke off her story:
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you can’t just sit and look at London till it begins to look at you.”
“No.”
“You look as if you’d like to sit there forever and ever. Oh, you do look tired, poor thing! But keep awake a little, there’s a dear. I must know what I’m going to do with you.”
He could hardly keep his attention fixed on what she was saying, but he fastened his eyes on her to make her understand that he was listening.
“You don’t want to go home? No?”
He shook his head.
“Popped the lid on it, have you?”