its two occupants intrigued him, for he had adventured into all sorts of holes and corners during the last three weeks, basements, attics, grimy rooms in old Georgian houses that had once known patched and powdered gentlewomen.
He had seen woman in her squalor and her anguish, pathetic, horrible, clean and unclean. He had been shocked, and he had been touched. He had carried food into one or two dens, and brought pity and disgust away with him.
As for this workman's flat it was both unusual and yet sufficiently usual. These two girls! They did not belong to the particular profession, of that he was sure. He understood that the mother was not married.
"Like to smoke?" asked the soft voice from beside the gas range.
"No,—thanks."
He observed the interior of his tea-cup.
"Aren't you tired?"
"Oh,—a bit. I'm going to see this through. Expect I shall be a little sleepy over the programmes and the teas to-morrow."
Kit glanced across at her.
"Your job?"
"Yes,—at the 'Pelargonium.'"
"There! Why that's Roland's place."
"You mean—the—Roland."
"Yes,—I know him."
"Do you," said she, with an intent look, "and Miss Gent perhaps?"
"Yes. Cherry."
"Wish I was her. Lovely voice she has. I sell programmes, and do half the stalls. Gwen's in a shop; quite a good job. Rather bad luck for her, this."
Kit had a feeling that they were slipping into a swift and extraordinary intimacy. He both fought it, and did not fight it.
"I suppose it is," he said.
"Yes, he can't marry her, if he wanted to. Men don't, do they,—when this happens?"
"I don't know."
"She doesn't want it either, not really. Being married! No thanks. Not good enough."
She sat with folded arms, and seemed to reflect upon life,
