On the landing, where she paused for a moment, she hummed an air, with the foreseen result that Mr.Gammon called out to her.
"Polly!" She vouchsafed no answer.
"Miss Sparkes!" "Well ?" "Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this fine day ?" "No, Mr.Gammon, I certainly will not!" "Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes." The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the laugh that came after would have softened any repartee, with its undernote of good humour and harmless gaiety.

Biting her lips to preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs.

Sunshine through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about the staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells--the closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours from a sluttish kitchen.

As Moggie happened to be wiping down the front steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless variety--the life of Kennington Road--all dust and sweat under a glaring summer sun.

To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of selling programmes at a fashionable theatre.