Maggie reddened, and he forbore to press the unkind inquiry. He gathered that Maggie's ways had been not unknown to Madame Ponting, "years ago."
"Would you like to see some of my embroidery?"
He assented gravely. He did not want to turn Maggie from the path of industry, which was to her the path of virtue.
She went to a cupboard, and returned with her arms full of little rolls and parcels wrapped in paper. She unfolded and spread on the table various squares, and strips, and little pieces, silk and woollen stuffs, and canvas, exquisitely embroidered. There were flowers in most of the patterns—flowers, as it appeared, of Maggie's fancy.
"I say, did you do all that yourself, Maggie?"
"Yes, that's what I can do. I make the patterns out of me head, and they're mostly flowers, because I love 'em. It's pretty, isn't it?" said Maggie, stroking tenderly a pattern of pansies, blue pansies, such as she had never sold in Evans's shop.
"Very pretty—very beautiful."
"I've sold lots—to a lady, before I was ill. See here."
Maggie unfolded something that was pinned in silver paper with a peculiar care. It was a small garment, in some faint-coloured silk, embroidered with blue pansies (always blue pansies).
"That's a frock," said she, "for a little girl. You've got a little girl—a little fair girl."