“Glad I haven’t got to,” said Thomas. “Poor little beggar.”
“Yes, but ’ow would you tell ’er?” Mr. Darling said, varying the accent very carefully.
“I’d go to ’er and I’d pat her back and I’d say, ‘bear up,’ see, and when she asked what for, I’d just tell her what for—gradual like.”
“You don’t know the missis,” said Mr. Darling. “Henry, ’ow’d ju tell ’er?”
“Let ’er find out,” said Henry. “Wimmin do.”
Mr. Darling reflected, and decided that too was unworkable.
“’Ow’d you?” he asked with an air of desperation of the red-haired youth.
The red-haired youth remained for a moment with his tongue extended, licking the gum of a cigarette paper, and his eyes on Mr. Darling. Then he finished the cigarette slowly, giving his mind very carefully to the question he had been honoured with. “I think,” he said, in a low serious voice, “I should say, just simply, Mary—or Susan—or whatever her name is.”
“Tilda,” supplied Mr. Darling.
“‘Tilda,’ I should say. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord ’ath taken away. Tilda!—’e’s gone.’ Somethin’ like that.”