"Good-evening, mith," he said; "nithe evening!""He's rather an awful little man," the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; "but he's got quite a nice sense of humour.""Ah!" said Thyme.
They had turned into a by-street, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. Its windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an evil-looking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. Thyme felt a little gulping sensation. There was a putrid scent as of burning refuse. She looked at her companion. The grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a faint smile on her lips. And in Thyme's heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so business-like in the presence of such sights and scents.
The door was opened by a young red-faced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep.
The grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. "Oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?" she said. "It would be so good of you. We're making a report.""There's nothing to report here," the young woman answered. But the grey girl had slipped as gently past as though she had been the very spirit of adventure.
"Of course, I see that, but just as a matter of form, you know.""I've parted with most of my things," the young woman said defensively, "since my husband died. It's a hard life.""Yes, yes, but not worse than mine--always poking my nose into other people's houses."The young woman was silent, evidently surprised.
"The landlord ought to keep you in better repair," said the grey girl. "He owns next door, too, doesn't he?"The young woman nodded. "He's a bad landlord. All down the street 'ere it's the same. Can't get nothing done."The grey girl had gone over to a dirty bassinette where a half-naked child sprawled. An ugly little girl with fat red cheeks was sitting on a stool beside it, close to an open locker wherein could be seen a number of old meat bones.'
"Your chickabiddies?" said the grey girl. "Aren't they sweet?"The young woman's face became illumined by a smile.
"They're healthy," she said.
"That's more than can be said for all the children in the house, Iexpect," murmured the grey girl.
The young woman replied emphatically, as though voicing an old grievance: "The three on the first floor's not so bad, but I don't let 'em 'ave anything to do with that lot at the top."Thyme saw her new friend's hand hover over the child's head like some pale dove. In answer to that gesture, the mother nodded. "Just that; you've got to clean 'em every time they go near them children at the top."The grey girl looked at Thyme. 'That's where we've got to go, evidently,' she seemed to say.
"A dirty lot!" muttered the young woman.
"It's very hard on you."
"It is. I'm workin' at the laundry all day when I can get it. Ican't look after the children--they get everywhere.""Very hard," murmured the grey girl. "I'll make a note of that."Together with the little book, in which she was writing furiously, she had pulled out her handkerchief, and the sight of this handkerchief reposing on the floor gave Thyme a queer satisfaction, such as comes when one remarks in superior people the absence of a virtue existing in oneself.
"Well, we mustn't keep you, Mrs.--Mrs. ?"
"Cleary."
"Cleary. How old's this little one? Four? And the other? Two?
They are ducks. Good-bye!"
In the corridor outside the grey girl whispered: "I do like the way we all pride ourselves on being better than someone else. I think it's so hopeful and jolly. Shall we go up and see the abyss at the top?"
