He was about to say good-bye when Di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay.
“We haven’t heard, you know, about the slops yet. Do stop just one minute, dear papa. I wonder if it’s like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when I’m ill.”
“It’s not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. But you are right. Let us hear about it, Miss Hetty.”
The idea of “Miss” being applied to Hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened.
“Indeed, sir, I do not complain,” said Hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. “I am thankful for what has been sent—indeed I am—only it was a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us.”
She stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. “Go on, Hetty,” said her mother, “and don’t be afraid. Bless you, he’s not goin’ to report what you say.”
“I know that, mother. Well, sir, this was the way on it. They sometimes—”
“Excuse me—who are ‘they’?”
“I beg pardon, sir, I—I’d rather not tell.”
“Very well. I respect your feelings, my girl. Some slop-making firm, I suppose. Go on.”