"But why didn't you come to us ?" "I didn't feel up to it, ma'am; I didn't really--" A tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth.
Mrs.Dallison said hurriedly: "Yes, yes; I'm very sorry." "This old gentleman, Mr.Creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband." The old man wagged his head on its lean stalk of neck.
"He ought to know better than be'ave 'imself so disrespectable," he said.
Cecilia looked at him, and murmured: "I hope he won't turn on you!" The old man shuffled his feet.
"I likes to live at peace with everybody.

I shall have the police to 'im if he misdemeans hisself with me!...

Westminister, sir ?" And, screening his mouth from Mrs.Dallison, he added in a loud whisper: "Execution of the Shoreditch murderer!" Cecilia felt suddenly as though the world were listening to her conversation with these two rather seedy persons.
"I don't really know what I can do for you, Mrs.Hughs.

I'll speak to Mr.Dallison, and to Mr.Hilary too." "Yes, ma'am; thank you, ma'am." With a smile which seemed to deprecate its own appearance, Cecilia grasped her skirts and crossed the road.

"I hope I wasn't unsympathetic," she thought, looking back at the three figures on the edge of the pavement--the old man with his papers, and his discoloured nose thrust upwards under iron-rimmed spectacles; the seamstress in her black dress; the skimpy little boy.