"Bless yer," said Miss Montaubyn,
"sit down."
Dart sat and thanked her. Glad
dropped upon the floor and girdled
her knees comfortably while Miss
Montaubyn took the second chair,
which was close to the table, and
snuffed the candle which stood near
a basket of colored scraps such as,
without doubt, had made the harlequin
curtain.
"Yer won't mind me goin' on
with me bit o' work?" she chirped.
"Tell 'im wot it is," Glad suggested.
"They come from a dressmaker as is
in a small way," designating the scraps
by a gesture. "I clean up for 'er an'
she lets me 'ave 'em. I make 'em up
into anythink I can--pin-cushions an'
bags an' curtings an' balls. Nobody'd
think wot they run to sometimes.
Now an' then I sell some of 'em.
Wot I can't sell I give away."
"Drunken Bet's biby plays with
'er ball all day," said Glad.
"Ah!" said Miss Montaubyn,
drawing out a long needleful of
thread, "Bet, SHE thinks it worse
than it is."
"Could it be worse?" asked Dart.
"Could anything be worse than
everything is?"
"Lots," suggested Glad; "might
'ave broke your back, might 'ave a
fever, might be in jail for knifin'
someone. 'E wants to 'ear you
talk, Miss Montaubyn; tell 'im all
about yerself."
"Me!" her expectant eyes on him.
" 'E wouldn't want to 'ear it. I
shouldn't want to 'ear it myself.
Bein' on the 'alls when yer a pretty
girl ain't an 'elpful life; an' bein'
took up an' dropped down till yer
dropped in the gutter an' don't know
'ow to get out--it 's wot yer mustn't
let yer mind go back to.
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