"An so there's nothink but settin', as I said before—settin' till yer can't set no more. If I begin o' seven, I gets Mr. Dickson to put the teathings an the loaf andy, so as I don't 'ave to get up more'n jes to fetch the kettle; and the chillen gets the same as me—tea an bread, and a red 'erring Sundays; an Mr. Dickson, 'e gets 'is meals out. I gives 'im the needful, and 'e don't make no trouble; an the children is dreadful frackshus sometimes, and gets in my way fearful. But there, if I can set—set till I 'ear Stepney Church goin twelve—I can earn my ten shillin a week, an keep the lot of 'em. Wot does any lidy or genelman want, a comin' meddlin down 'ere? Now, that's the middle an both ends on it. Done? Well, I dessay I is done. Lor, I ses to em in the orspital it do seem rummy to me to be layin abed like that. If Tom was 'ere, why, 'e'd—"
She made a queer, significant grimace. But the audience laughed no longer. They stared silently at the gaunt creature, and with their silence her own mood changed.
Suddenly she whipped up her apron. She drew it across her eyes, and flung it away again passionately.
"I dessay we shall be lyin abed in Kingdom Come," she said defiantly, yet piteously. "But we've got to git there fust. An I don't want no shops, thank yer!"
She rambled on a little longer, then, at a sign from the lady-secretary, made a grinning curtsy to the audience and departed.
"What do they get out of that?" said Watton, in Tressady's ear—"Poor galley-slave in praise of servitude!"
"Her slavery keeps her alive, please."
"Yes—and drags down the standard of a whole class!"
"You'll admit she seemed content?"
"It's that content we want to kill.—Ah! at last!" and Watton clapped loudly, followed by about half the meeting, while the rest sat silent. Then Tressady perceived that the chair-woman had called upon Lady Maxwell to move the next resolution, and that the tall figure had risen.