“That's the poor old creature,” thought Cecilia Dallison, “whose nose is so unpleasant. I don't really think I—” and she felt for a penny in her little bag. Standing beside the “poor old creature” was a woman clothed in worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once known a better head. The wan remains of a little bit of fur lay round her throat. She had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very clear brown eyes, and a twist of smooth black hair. Beside her was a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. Mrs. Dallison held out two-pence for the paper, but it was at the woman that she looked.
“Oh, Mrs. Hughs,” she said, “we've been expecting you to hem the curtains!”
The woman slightly pressed the baby.
“I am very sorry, ma'am. I knew I was expected, but I've had such trouble.”
Cecilia winced. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, m'm; it's my husband.”
“Oh, dear!” Cecilia murmured. “But why didn't you come to us?”
“I didn't feel up to it, ma'am; I didn't really—”
A tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth.
Mrs. Dallison said hurriedly: “Yes, yes; I'm very sorry.”