"Couldn't that be done—some of the families with young children that are not yet attacked?" Her eyes hung on him.
He shook his head. He had already proposed something of the sort to
Melrose. It had been vetoed.
The men watched him. At last one of them—a lanky youth, with a frowning, ironic expression and famous as a heckler at public meetings—said with slow emphasis:
"There'll coom a day i' this coontry, mates, when men as treat poor foak like Muster Melrose, 'ull be pulled off t' backs of oos an' our like. And may aa live to see 't!"
"Aye! aye!" came in deep assent from the others, as they turned away. But one white and sickly fellow looked back to say:
"An' it's a graat pity for a yoong mon like you, sir, to be doin' Muster Melrose's dirty work—taakin' o' the police—as though yo' had 'em oop your sleeve!"
"Haven't I done what I could for you?" cried Faversham, stung by the reproach, and its effect on Lydia's face.
"Aye—mebbe—but it's nowt to boast on." The man, middle aged but prematurely old, stood still, trembling from head to foot. "My babe as wor born yesterday, deed this mornin'; an' they say t' wife 'ull lig beside it afore night."
There was a sombre silence. Faversham broke it. "I must see the nurses," he said to Lydia; "but again, I beg of you to go! I will send you news."
"I will wait for you. Don't be afraid. I won't go indoors."