“Then you're only getting the two shillings a day from Mr. Stone?”
She nodded.
“H'm!”
The unexpected fervour of this grunt seemed to animate the little model.
“Three and sixpence for my rent, and breakfast costs threepence nearly—only bread-and-butter—that's five and two; and washing's always at least tenpence—that's six; and little things last week was a shilling—even when I don't take buses—seven; that leaves five shillings for my dinners. Mr. Stone always gives me tea. It's my clothes worries me.” She tucked her feet farther beneath the seat, and Hilary refrained from looking down. “My hat is awful, and I do want some—-” She looked Hilary in the face for the first time. “I do wish I was rich.”
“I don't wonder.”
The little model gritted her teeth, and, twisting at her dirty gloves, said: “Mr. Dallison, d'you know the first thing I'd buy if I was rich?”
“No.”
“I'd buy everything new on me from top to toe, and I wouldn't ever wear any of these old things again.”
Hilary got up: “Come with me now, and buy everything new from top to toe.”