lamp at the head of the stairs cast its pale, searching light over her short, freshly-coloured face, surrounded by frizzed, sandy hair, under a drooping white hat that registered in its dents and smudges every day and night of the long journey. Her red lips parted over teeth that were not her own, but good ones nevertheless: probably much whiter and more even than the original set.
"Ay, and live on the fat of the land she will, though the rest of us stairve. Isn't that so? What does your friend think? Has she no word to say?" He looked from the point he had reached at the top of the stairs down at the figure coming slowly up, weighted by a canvas-covered basket. Her hat shielded her face, but he saw the curve of a splendid young breast under a thin black blouse, and a rounded throat that gleamed like white satin.
"Make 'aste, my dear," said the short one. She turned with a smile to Kirke. "Such a sleepy'ead as she is I never seen. Just like a 'ealthy kiddie. Eat, and sleep, and enjoy 'erself."
"I'm tired, I am," came a low, deep voice from under the hat.
Kirke went down a few steps and took the basket from her. "Weel," he said, "it's weighty enough. What have ye got in here, anyway? Gold sovereigns?"
"It's a tea-set," she explained. "It was my grandmother's what brought me up. I've never been parted from it on any journey, and I shan't be, if it was ever so."
She was now in the clear light. Kirke all but let the basket drop in the fulness of his astonishment. He was used to pretty girls. There had been many a pretty face and form among the maids in The Duke of York. The girls in the glove factory and the jam factory were often much more than passable. His bright, questing eyes had not roved unappeased. But now he realized that he had
