And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a chair.
A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spasmodically. A creak outside. She had come up. But the curtains did not move. Why didn't she come in? She was going past. The girl hastened across the room, the intensity of the impulse lending her strength.
“Come—come in,” she gasped. “Quick—I'm slipping.”
She struck at the wall; but with the flat of her hand, for there was no grip. The woman bursting in, caught her, and led her back to the sofa.
“There, there, dearie,” tucking the cloak round her feet. “Lift up the piller, my 'ands are that mucky. Will yer 'ave anythin'?”
She shook her head. “It's gone,” she muttered. “Now—tell me.”
“Tell yer?—tell yer what! Why—why—there ain't jest nothin' to tell yer.”
“What were they saying? Quick.”
“I didn't 'ear nothin'. They was talking about some ballet-woman.”