Ste. (earnestly). It's the wrongs of your class. I think of others, Pilling. I see what the motorman saw—streets crowded with little children, growing up in the gutter, playing in the dust—I can't help it. My tongue runs away with me when I think of it all.
Walter. Say no more, Mr. Verity. You're probably right about the Polygon. I dare say we are out of place there, but you couldn't expect me to take your view the moment it's sprung on me.
Ste. (nodding). I've a way of calling a spade a spade.
(A knock at the door. Jim opens it. A Man advances a foot into the room. Behind him is dimly seen a woman, both poorly dressed. The Man has a bundle tied up into a blue quilt on his shoulder; his voice is tired and hopeless.)
Man. Have you got any floor space to let in this room, mate?
Jim. No. (Trying to close the door. The Man's foot keeps it open.)
Man. Don't shut the door in our face. I've got the money to pay for it. I'll give you a week's rent now.
Jim. It's no use. I'm not letting.
Man (pleading). I'm in work, mate. Start at Bamford's factory o' Monday. A corner's all as we want.
Jim. I tell you I've none to let.