“Is William good to his wife?”
“Course he is. Ain’t she his missis?”
“Why should that make him good to her?” I asked, cynically, out of my knowledge of the poor. But the girl, precocious in many ways, had never had any opportunities of studying the lower classes in the newspapers, fiction, and club talk. She shut one eye, and, looking up wonderingly, said:
“Ain’t you green—just!”
“When does William reach home at night?”
“‘Tain’t night; it’s morning. When I wakes up at half dark and half light, and hears a door shutting, I know as it’s either father going off to his work or Mr. Hicking come home from his.”
“Who is Mr. Hicking?”
“Him as we’ve been speaking on—William. We calls him mister, ‘cause he’s a toff. Father’s just doing jobs in Covent Gardens, but Mr. Hicking, he’s a waiter, and a clean shirt every day. The old woman would like father to be a waiter, but he hain’t got the ‘ristocratic look.”
“What old woman?”
“Go ‘long! that’s my mother. Is it true there’s a waiter in the club just for to open the door?”