Linton.—It's so foggy I can't see the face of the clock. The tower's almost hidden by it. Lord, what a night!
Benn (uneasily).—Oh, I don't think it's going to be too bad. It's not cold.
Linton (shivering).—But the fog. That's what chokes you like cotton wool. (He returns to his seat by the table and puffs gloomily at his pipe.)
Benn.—Well, even if we can't see the clock we'll 'ear the whistles blow for six. It'll be time enough then.
Linton (mildly).—Where's she working to-day?
Benn (musing).—It's Thursday. H'm. Her reg'lar d'y at Mrs. Horning's, Argyle Road. Not so far off neither. It'll not tike 'er long.
Linton (placidly).—Yes, but she's got to go to the Day Nursery for the kid.
Benn.—Yes, she's got to go to the Nursery. I believe the fog's lifting. Try if you can see the clock now.
