"Except get out," said Andrew.
Another old woman came in—then a young man. A fine specimen this last—a local prize-fighter, it appeared—chest like a wall, thick, stumpy thighs, face of a beetroot colour, nose twisted, ears like saucers. The old woman, Maria's friend, was voluble. She explained a great deal to Tom. She was used, it seemed, to speaking in public. They could afford, she explained, to be indifferent to the "Quality" now, because a time was very shortly coming when they would have everything, and the Quality nothing. It had happened far away in Russia, and it was about to happen here. A good thing too.... At last the poor people could appear as they really were, hold their heads up. Only a month or two....
"You're a Bolshevist," said Tom.
Long words did not distress the old lady. "A fine time's coming," she said.
Maria did not refuse the food and the finery and the money. "You think," said Tom, as a final word to her old lady friend, "that I'm doing this because I'm charitable, because I love you, or some nonsense of that kind. Not at all. I'm doing it because I'm interested, and I haven't been interested in anything for months."
He arranged with the pugilist to be present at his next encounter, somewhere in Blackfriars, next Monday night.
"It's against the Bermondsey Chick," Battling Bill explained huskily. "I've got one on him. Your money's safe enough...."
Tom gave Maria a parting smile.
"I don't like you," he said, "and I can see that you positively hate me, but we're getting along very nicely...."