The two women looked curiously at each other. They were utterly unlike in any characteristic. Mrs. Betty in her furs looked like a Russian countess in the hovel of a peasant.
The room was unconditionally dirty, and smelled of burned fat. There was nothing to admire in it, nothing to provide the lady with a subject for enthusiasm.
“I am glad your husband is better, Mrs. Ripstone.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The woman in the blue blouse stood stolidly by the table. Mrs. Betty’s words made no evident impression on her. It was as though she regarded the visit as a necessary evil, and was only persuaded to be polite by such tangible blessings as might accrue.
“Have you any children?”
Mrs. Ripstone stared.
“Ten, ma’am.”
Her brevity was expressive.
“You must be very busy.”