“I’m her doorkeeper, and she’ll not have you.”
“Why not?”
“Cause you’re dirty.”
“Yer lie.”
“Can’t I smell?” said the other indignantly. “If you don’t go and take a warm bath, which you can have for nuthin’,” pointing to the courtyard, “you can’t come in here. Now get.”
“I sha’n’t; I’m comin’ in.”
The doorkeeper stood his ground. “You don’t need fine duds to come here,” he said eloquently; “Miss Turner’ll stand rags or anythin’, but you’ve got to be clean. She hates dirt.”
The boy silently withdrew, but presently came back his face shining with a cleanliness that was evidently unusual and painful to him.
Just as the door closed behind him Dr. Camperdown and Mr. Armour entered, both irresistibly drawn thither by the presence of the women they loved.
Camperdown stepped in boldly and confidently. He was a frequent visitor to the place. Armour came in more quietly and looked about him with some curiosity.