MRS. ROBERTS. [With a spice of malice.] And they say gentlefolk's just as bad.
ENID. [With a smile.] I go as far as most people, Annie, but you know, yourself, that's nonsense.
MRS. ROBERTS. [With painful effort.] A lot 'o the men never go near the Public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes if there's illness.
ENID. But they've got their clubs, have n't they?
MRS. ROBERTS. The clubs only give up to eighteen shillin's a week, M'm, and it's not much amongst a family. Roberts says workin' folk have always lived from hand to mouth. Sixpence to-day is worth more than a shillin' to-morrow, that's what they say.
ENID. But that's the spirit of gambling.
MRS. ROBERTS. [With a sort of excitement.] Roberts says a working man's life is all a gamble, from the time 'e 's born to the time 'e dies.
[ENID leans forward, interested. MRS. ROBERTS goes on with a growing excitement that culminates in the personal feeling of the last words.]
He says, M'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all 'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the grave. He says that without a man is very near, and pinches and stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither surplus nor security. That's why he wouldn't have no children [she sinks back], not though I wanted them.
ENID. Yes, yes, I know!