The boy spoke from without. “Hist, hist! Master’s coming down the street.”
Aderhold left the booth, shouldered his stick and bundle and went on his way.
He walked steadily, the sun at his back, lifting through the mist and at last gilding the whole city. He was now upon its northwestern fringe, in the “suburbs.” They had an evil name, and he was willing to pass through them hurriedly. They had a sinister look,—net-work of foul lanes, low, wooden, squinting houses, base taverns that leered.
A woman came and walked beside him, paint on her cheeks.
“Where are you going, my bonny man?” Then, as he would have outstepped her, “What haste? Lord! what haste?”
“I have a long way to go,” said Aderhold.
“As long and as short as I have to go,” said the woman. “If you are willing we might go together.”
Aderhold walked on, “I am not for that gear, mistress.”
“No?” said the woman. “Then for what gear are you?... Perhaps I am not for it, either, but—Lord God! one must eat!” She began to sing in a cracked voice but vaguely sweet.
“A lass there dwelled in London town—