As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which lacked colour almost as much as her face, being of that light yellow ochre tint which has the appearance of having been soaked in soda and water to bleach it; it was untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown tam-o'-shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing. There was a knowing, womanly look about her face, as if she had never been a child, but had begun life as a grown-up person.
As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long stretches of darkness between them, and at length the furnace lights formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a scene of utter desolation.
"What a curious place!" Marjorie said to the girl at her side.
"I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does too!"
"Why do you live here, then?"
"Oh! Father is the manager at the works over there. We have to live here, I suppose; it's a hateful place!"
"What is your name?"
"Patty. Did you ever hear such an awful name? I detest it. I can't think how ever they brought themselves to give me a name like that. It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call me after her."
"How many are there of you?"
"Seven; isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."