Poll thrust her hands deep into the big pockets of her gay apron, and gazed around her.
A vendor with whom she often dealt held up some bunches of pink and white peonies for her inspection. She knew how Jill’s face would darken and glow with pleasure over the peonies. What a sight her basket would look filled with these exquisite flowers.
The man had poppies of various colours, too, and any amount of green for decoration.
“Come, missis,” he called to Poll. “You won’t see flowers like these yere in a hurry, and they’re cheap—dirt cheap. You see these poppies; ain’t they prime?”
Poll shook her head.
“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I ain’t got a cent with me, and the only man as ’ud give me flowers on tick has just gone and sold his business. I do call it ’ard.”
“So do I,” said the owner of the poppies. He was a good-humoured, rosy-faced young farmer.
“You look a tidy sort,” he said; “not like any o’ they—” He pointed with his thumb in a certain direction where a group of slatternly flower girls of the true Drury Lane type were standing. “You don’t belong to ’em,” he said.
“No, that I don’t. Worse luck for me. They ha’ got flowers to sell, and I han’t any.”