“I’ll go telephone,” said Mr. Bonstone, with what for him, was quite an amount of eagerness.
He got out of the room so quickly, that I could not follow him. In a few minutes he came back smiling. “My wife says she doesn’t care what the shade is—to bring it quickly.”
“I’ll go first, sir,” said Ellen, “it’s close by,” and she stepped out into the hall, and crossing to a near by flat, knocked on a door and went in.
After some time she came back, and asked Mr. Bonstone to follow her. I pushed after him, for this was wildly interesting to me. I took good care, though, to keep in the background, lest I should be driven out.
This other flat reminded me of the nests of boxes ladies buy—one box inside another, and another inside that, till you get to the tiniest box. It seems a Syrian family renting it, took boarders, and at first it was quite an effort to single out the various members of the various families.
They all looked respectable and fairly clean, but they were certainly very crowded. I think they were all peddlers of fruit and vegetables or trinkets. There was a roaring coal fire in a kitchen stove, and they all sat round it. One man was playing on a queer-looking musical instrument, and the others were listening to him. One big girl had a baby in her arms. This probably was the baby Ellen had spoken of, and I looked at it anxiously.
It was a healthy, happy-looking little object in a ragged, but not too dirty frock.
Ellen motioned to this girl, and she followed us into an inner room, or rather a closet, where a young woman with a dark, eager face lay on a tiny bed. It was a poor place, and smelt stuffy, but not unclean.
I knew by the girl’s face she was the baby’s mother. Oh! what a devouring glance she gave Mr. Bonstone.