It was the topmost attic of the house—where servants sleep.
Suddenly the singing at his heart ceased, Noll bent brooding wits on the question as to what grinding toil kept Betty’s dainty fingers at work at midnight to the winning of bread.
He crossed the road, walked up the steps, and rang the bell; and, as he did so, a light came into the fan-shaped window over the door where he stood.
There was a drawing of bolts, a key grated in the lock, and the door swung open.
Before him, lit by the candle that she held high above her head, stood a pretty little woman, much overdressed above the extreme height of the fashion with the curious picturesque exaggeration that is the pretty habit of London theatrical folk—yet, for all her charming attire, a daughter of the people. She was in her hat still, as though not long come in.
“Victoria May Alice!” he exclaimed.
She nodded pertly:
“God forgive me, that’s me,” she said.
She shaded the light from her eyes with one hand, and stared at the youth:
“Well, translate me to uttermost leading parts at the West End Theatres if it ain’t Mister Noll!... You ain’t forgotten Victoria May Alice, anyhow—there’s no error in that contract.”