“Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”

“Is the baby well?”

“Yes, m’m, thank you, m’m.”

There was a silence.

‘It’s no good talking of her domestic matters,’ thought Cecilia; ’not that I don’t care!’ But the silence getting on her nerves, she said quickly:  “Is your husband behaving himself better?”

There was no answer; Cecilia saw a tear trickle slowly down the woman’s cheek.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she thought; ‘poor thing!  I’m in for it!’

Mrs. Hughs’ whispering voice began:  “He’s behaving himself dreadful, m’m.  I was going to speak to you.  It’s ever since that young girl”—­her face hardened—­“come to live down in my room there; he seem to—­he seem to—­just do nothing but neglect me.”

Cecilia’s heart gave the little pleasurable flutter which the heart must feel at the love dramas of other people, however painful.

“You mean the little model?” she said.

The seamstress answered in an agitated voice:  “I don’t want to speak against her, but she’s put a spell on him, that’s what she has; he don’t seem able to do nothing but talk of her, and hang about her room.  It was that troubling me when I saw you the other day.  And ever since yesterday midday, when Mr. Hilary came—­he’s been talking that wild—­and he pushed me—­and—­and—–­” Her lips ceased to form articulate words, but, since it was not etiquette to cry before her superiors, she used them to swallow down her tears, and something in her lean throat moved up and down.

At the mention of Hilary’s name the pleasurable sensation in Cecilia had undergone a change.  She felt curiosity, fear, offence.

“I don’t quite understand you,” she said.

The seamstress plaited at her frock.  “Of course, I can’t help the way he talks, m’m.  I’m sure I don’t like to repeat the wicked things he says about Mr. Hilary.  It seems as if he were out of his mind when he gets talkin’ about that young girl.”

The tone of those last three words was almost fierce.

Cecilia was on the point of saying:  ’That will do, please; I want to hear no more.’  But her curiosity and queer subtle fear forced her instead to repeat:  “I don’t understand.  Do you mean he insinuates that Mr. Hilary has anything to do with—­with this girl, or what?” And she thought:  ’I’ll stop that, at any rate.’

The seamstress’s face was distorted by her efforts to control her voice.

“I tell him he’s wicked to say such things, m’m, and Mr. Hilary such a kind gentleman.  And what business is it of his, I say, that’s got a wife and children of his own?  I’ve seen him in the street, I’ve watched him hanging about Mrs. Hilary’s house when I’ve been working there waiting for that girl, and following her—­home—–­” Again her lips refused to do service, except in the swallowing of her tears.

Cecilia thought:  ‘I must tell Stephen at once.  That man is dangerous.’  A spasm gripped her heart, usually so warm and snug; vague feelings she had already entertained presented themselves now with startling force; she seemed to see the face of sordid life staring at the family of Dallison.  Mrs. Hughs’ voice, which did not dare to break, resumed: