Margaret's eyes answered. The woman saw that she was making an effort to keep calm.
"But he's not leaving his little ones behind him—ye'll no be married?
I've got two at home to keep."
"You have his children—I have nothing," Margaret said enviously.
The woman burst into fresh weeping. Margaret envied her abandonment.
"They are a comfort," she said, "in a way. But they're a deal of trouble and anxiety—ye're well off without them."
The woman looked poor and clean. Half a crown left Margaret's purse and took its place beside the coppers which lay in the woman's. It seemed to her horribly vulgar and insulting to offer the woman money as a form of comfort, but her knowledge of the very poor told her that on a cold northern night, the feeling that an extra half-crown had been added to her income would help. It would "keep the home-fire burning" for a week or so, at least.
With quick feet Margaret retraced her steps to the free refreshment-room. Her selfish absence from her post pricked her conscience. When she entered it she saw that it was almost empty. One man was lying stretched out at full length on a seat; a pillow was under his head and he was fast asleep. He had lost his "connection" and would not be able to get a train until after midnight. He was safe from temptation in the hospitable room. Another man was writing letters at the big table; he had already addressed half a dozen postcards.
Margaret knew that in this quiet interval her aunt would be busy washing up and drying the dirty cups at the wash-basin in the inner ladies' room. She hurried to join her.
"Have I been very long?" she said. "I do feel so selfish."
"No, no, my dear," her aunt said quickly. "I managed quite well—the rush had ceased." She looked at her niece questioningly. "I suppose you recognized a friend?"