"Well, I was wondering if yous 'ud have me an' my boss. We often make a couple of bob like that."
Louis nodded, and she shuffled off, appearing a few moments later with an old man who had evidently been waiting about for the chance of earning a few shillings.
"It isn't a bit like Lochinvar," whispered Marcella, "or Jock of Hazeldean."
"Poor old lady," he whispered, suddenly gentle.
The two old people sat down on the form beside Louis, who edged a little closer to Marcella.
"It's forty years since we was married, my boss and me," began the old woman. "Forty years—and brought up twelve—"
"Buried six," mumbled the old man, shaking his head and wiping a watery eye on his coat sleeve.
"I say, I feel no end of an ass, don't you?" whispered Louis. "Tell the old idiots to shut up."
"Poor old things—forty years ago they thought it was all going to be so shining," she whispered.
"It isn't as if he's had very good work," went on the old woman, "but you must take the rough with the smooth."