“If you please,” said the old captain with his sharp air of courtesy.
See Robert Lancaster clearing his locker down on the lower deck and distributing souvenirs to his colleagues; a part of the inside of a watch to one; a copy of “Kidnapped” to another; several pieces of rare old string to the boy from Poplar, now, under the stress of Westmouth discipline, a contented, optimistic lad. See Robert Lancaster going off in the gig with six shillings tied in his handkerchief, being part of the prize for swimming gained by him at the last competition, and taking train at the small station for Fenchurch Street. See him arriving near the old neighbourhood and walking with a fine, sailor-like roll in his wide trousers and open-necked jacket towards Pimlico Walk, in which thoroughfare, now it seemed to him more preposterously narrow than ever, children stopped the playing of tipcat to stare at him open-mouthed, and women going into miniature shops arrested themselves in order to ascertain, from feelings of vague curiosity, his destination.
“No one about?” he asked in the doorway of Mrs. Bell’s millinery establishment. The small window was still set out with magnificent feathered hats, but there appeared to be a suggestion of good taste in the arrangement that had in the old days been absent.
“Yes,” said a little girl sitting on a high chair behind the counter, “there’s me.”
“No one else?”
“Who else d’you want?” asked the girl cautiously.
“Isn’t Mrs. Bell about?”
“She’s been bedridden for the last six months, if that’s what you call being about.”
“And Trixie?”
“You mean Miss Bell?”