“Some girls, so I have heard,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, “smoke cigarettes.”
“Not nice girls,” thought Mrs. Postwhistle.
“One of the nicest girls I ever knew,” remarked Miss Bulstrode, “always smoked a cigarette after supper. Said it soothed her nerves.”
“Wouldn’t ’ave thought so if I’d ’ad charge of ’er,” said Mrs. Postwhistle.
“I think,” said Miss Bulstrode, who seemed restless, “I think I shall go for a little walk before turning in.”
“Perhaps it would do us good,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, laying down her knitting.
“Don’t you trouble to come,” urged the thoughtful Miss Bulstrode. “You look tired.”
“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Postwhistle. “Feel I should like it.”
In some respects Mrs. Postwhistle proved an admirable companion. She asked no questions, and only spoke when spoken to, which, during that walk, was not often. At the end of half an hour, Miss Bulstrode pleaded a headache and thought she would return home and go to bed. Mrs. Postwhistle thought it a reasonable idea.
“Well, it’s better than tramping the streets,” muttered Johnny, as the bedroom door was closed behind him, “and that’s all one can say for it. Must get hold of a smoke to-morrow, if I have to rob the till. What’s that?” Johnny stole across on, tiptoe. “Confound it!” said Johnny, “if she hasn’t locked the door!”