She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street.
"I'm not good at getting on with people," she explained.
Mary joined them, and went straight to Miss Ensor's bag and opened it.
She shook her head at the contents, which consisted of a small, flabby- looking meat pie in a tin dish, and two pale, flat mince tarts.
"It doesn't nourish you, dearie," complained Mary.

"You could have bought yourself a nice bit of meat with the same money." "And you would have had all the trouble of cooking it," answered the girl.

"That only wants warming up." "But I like cooking, you know, dearie," grumbled Mary.

"There's no interest in warming things up." The girl laughed.

"You don't have to go far for your fun," she said.
"I'll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it _au gratin_." Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almost banged the door.