“Can you sing anything besides ‘Lead Kindly Light?’” asked Walter.
“Of course she can’t,” said Tom. “It’s the whole of the beggar’s opera.” He was sore about that opened window and resented this girl who had disturbed a musical evening. He had appetite for more than the “Meister-singer,” and seemed likely, through the intruder, to go unsatisfied.
She looked pertly at Tom. “’A can, then,” she said. “Lots more, but,” her eyes strayed round the room, “’a dunno as you’d fancy ’em.”
“Go on,” said Walter. “There’ll be supper afterwards.”
“Crikey,” she said, and sang till he stopped her, which was very soon. They had a taste in the meaner public-houses of Staithley for the sort of song which it is libelous to term Rabelaisian. Her song, if she did not know the meaning of its words, was a violent assault upon decency; if she did know—and her hesitation had suggested that she did—it was precocious outrage.
“Stop it,” cried Walter, horrified.
Tom spat into the fire. “My constituents!” he groaned. “Walter, it’s a queasy thought.”
“I thought you favored education,” said Walter.
“I do, but—”
“Go on favoring it. It’s a growing child.”