She went on to talk of her daughter by her first marriage, who had died at seventeen, her coarse voice trembling as she told how clever she had been at crochet work, and what a small foot she had. She showed Gobion a tiny white shoe the girl had worn. It was piteous to hear her—this scraggy, hard woman—with tears in her eyes, talking of her dead darling.
Then she said, "My 'ands are all mucky, and I've gone and soiled the shoe. Pore 'Arriet, it don't matter to 'er now."
She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and with a change of manner—a somewhat futile arrogation of gaiety—"We're goin' to 'ave a bit of supper. Ebbage said as 'e could swallow a Welsh rarebit and a drop of something 'ot; come down and 'ave a bit."
"Yes," said Gobion slowly, "let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow——"
Mr. Belper came in and made coarse jokes, to Mr. Ebbage's huge delight. Gobion in his loneliness sat and became one of them, eating with his knife to avoid the appearance of eccentricity.
About eleven o'clock he went out with a jug to get some beer. The streets were heavy with fog, but he had not far to go, as the public-house he frequented was just round the corner. He chatted with the barmaid while she was drawing the beer, noticing with a smile the notice painted on the wall:
"Where else can you get
| Such fine Mellow | 4d. | Rum! |
| Such pure Old | 6d. | Whiskey! |
| Such luscious | 4-1/2d. | Gin! |
| Such Matchless | 6d. | Brandy!" |
As he was going back a man in evening dress knocked against him.
"I beg pardon," he said. "I don't see—good God! Gobion!"