“Right you are,” said Alfred, feeling as important as a ’bus conductor.

Mrs. Reeve hurried towards the City to her work.  Office cleaning was the first thing that had offered itself, and she could arrange the hours so as to look after the children between whiles.  Late at night and again early in the morning she was in the offices, and she earned a fraction over twopence an hour.

“You’re not seemin’ exackly saloobrious to-night, my dear,” said the old woman who had lately come to the same staircase, as they began to scour the stone with whitening.  “I do ’ope ‘e ain’t been layin’ ’is ’and on yer.”

“My ’usband didn’t ‘appen to be one of them sort, thankin’ yer kindly,” said Mrs. Reeve.

“Oh, a widder, and beggin’ yer pardon.  And you’ll ’ave children, of course?”

“Four,” said Mrs. Reeve, and she thought of them asleep in the firelight.

The old woman—­a mere bundle with a pair of eyes in it—­looked at her for a moment, and pretending out of delicacy to be talking to herself, she muttered loud enough to be heard:  “Oh, that’s where it is, is it?  There’s four, same as I’ve buried.  And a deal too many to bring up decent on ten shillin’ a week.  Why, I’d sooner let the Poor Law ’ave ’em, though me and the old man ’ad to go into the ’Ouse for it.  And that’s what I said to Mrs. Green when Mrs. Turner was left with six.  And Mrs. Turner she went and done it.  An uncommon sensible woman, was Mrs. Turner, not like some as don’t care what comes to their children, so long as they’re ’appy theirselves.”

In the woman’s words Mrs. Reeve heard the voice of mankind condemning her.  She knew it was all true.  The thought had haunted her for days, and that she might not hear more, she drowned the words by sousing about the dirty water under the hiss of the scouring brush.

But when she reached home just before midnight, her mind was made up.  Her husband had always insisted that the children should be well fed and healthy.  He had spoken with a countryman’s contempt of the meagre Cockney bodies around them.  One at least should go.  She lit the candle, and stood listening to their sleep.  Suddenly the further question came—­which of the four?  Should it be Alfred, the child of her girlhood, already so like his father, though he was only just nine?  She couldn’t get on without him, he was so helpful, could be trusted to light the lire, sweep the room and wash up.  It could not possibly be Alfred.  Should it be Lizzie, her little girl of five, so pretty and nice to dress in the old days when even her father would look up from his book with a grunt of satisfaction at her bits of finery on Sundays?  But a girl must always need the mother’s care.  It couldn’t possibly be Lizzie.  Or should it be little Ben, lying there with eyes sunk deep in his head, and one arm outside the counterpane?  Why, Ben was only three.  A few months ago he had been the baby.  It couldn’t possibly be little Ben.  And then there was the baby herself—­well, of course, it couldn’t be the baby.