Leander Hopkins himself answered their knock at the door, and to him Barbara explained her errand.
“Wal, I dunno. She’s got steady company now, and her mind seems to be set on him. She’d like to do it fer yer ma, though, I’m sure. Ye’d best ast her.”
He led the way through an uncarpeted hall into the kitchen, where a tired-faced woman and a slatternly girl were at work. Barbara cast a quick look at the latter, and her heart sank. The Vegetable Man’s daughter was thirty-odd years old. She was thin and sallow and stupid-looking. Her eyes were crossed, and a pair of large glasses, apparently worn to hide the defect, succeeded only in making it more prominent. She listened to Barbara’s recital with little show of interest.
“I dunno,” she said finally, “as there’s any need I should work out.”
Again Barbara offered inducements.
“Do you let your girls have company?” asked the Vegetable Man’s daughter, with a simper.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” answered Barbara.
“Steady company, I mean,” said the girl.
“If they prefer that kind,” said Barbara, smiling in spite of herself.
“And all their evenings?”