When Jenny went out to the scullery carrying her hat, after sweeping the scraps she had declined back into the old draper’s cardboard box which amply contained such treasures and preserved them from dust, Emmy, now quite quiet again, continued to sit by the fire, staring at the small glowing strip that showed under the door of the kitchen grate.  Every now and then she would sigh, wearily closing her eyes; and her breast would rise as if with a sob.  And she would sometimes look slowly up at the clock, with her head upon one side in order to see the hands in their proper aspect, as if she were calculating.

ii

From the scullery came the sound of Jenny’s whistle as she cheerily held the hat over the steam.  Pa heard it as something far away, like a distant salvationists’ band, and pricked up his ears; Emmy heard it, and her brow was contracted.  Her expression darkened.  Jenny began to hum: 

“’Oh Liza, sweet Liza,
If you die an old maid you’ll have only yourself to blame ...’”

It was like a sudden noise in a forest at night, so poignant was the contrast of the radiating silences that succeeded.  Jenny’s voice stopped sharply.  Perhaps it had occurred to her that her song would be overheard.  Perhaps she had herself become affected by the meaning of the words she was so carelessly singing.  There was once more an air of oblivion over all things.  The old man sank back in his chair, puffing slowly, blue smoke from the bowl of the pipe, grey smoke from between his lips.  Emmy looked again at the clock.  She had the listening air of one who awaits a bewildering event.  Once she shivered, and bent to the fire, raking among the red tumbling small coal with the bent kitchen poker.  Jenny began to whistle again, and Emmy impatiently wriggled her shoulders, jarred by the noise.  Suddenly she could bear no longer the whistle that pierced her thoughts and distracted her attention, but went out to the scullery.

“How are you getting on?” she asked with an effort.

“Fine.  This gas leaks.  Can’t you whiff it?  Don’t know which one it is.  Pa all right?”

“Yes, he’s all right.  Nearly finished?”

“Getting on.  Tram nearly ran over a kid to-night.  She was wheeling a pram full of washing on the line.  There wasn’t half a row about it—­shouting and swearing.  Anybody would have thought the kid had laid down on the line.  I expect she was frightened out of her wits—­all those men shouting at her.  There, now I’ll lay it on the plate rack over the gas for a bit....  Look smart, shan’t I!  With a red rose in it and a red ribbon....”

“Not going to have those streamers, or any lace, are you?”

“Not likely.  You see the kids round here wearing them; but the kids round here are always a season late.  Same with their costumes.  They don’t know any better.  I do!”