In a chair, with her elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands, sits Madge Thomas, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair.  She is listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves.

Mrs. Yeo.  So he give me a sixpence, and that’s the first bit o’ money I seen this week.  There an’t much ’eat to this fire.  Come and warm yerself Mrs. Rous, you’re lookin’ as white as the snow, you are.

Mrs. Rous. [Shivering—­placidly.] Ah! but the winter my old man was took was the proper winter.  Seventy-nine that was, when none of you was hardly born—­not Madge Thomas, nor Sue Bulgin. [Looking at them in turn.] Annie Roberts, ’ow old were you, dear?

Mrs Roberts.  Seven, Mrs. Rous.

Mrs. Rous.  Seven—­well, there!  A tiny little thing!

Mrs. Yeo. [Aggressively.] Well, I was ten myself, I remembers it.

Mrs. Rous. [Placidly.] The Company hadn’t been started three years.  Father was workin’ on the acid, that’s ’ow he got ’is pisoned-leg.  I kep’ sayin’ to ’im, “Father, you’ve got a pisoned leg.”  “Well,” ’e said, “Mother, pison or no pison, I can’t afford to go a-layin’ up.”  An’ two days after, he was on ’is back, and never got up again.  It was Providence!  There was n’t none o’ these Compensation Acts then.

Mrs. Yeo.  Ye had n’t no strike that winter! [With grim humour.] This winter’s ’ard enough for me.  Mrs. Roberts, you don’t want no ’arder winter, do you?  Wouldn’t seem natural to ’ave a dinner, would it, Mrs. Bulgin?

Mrs. Bulgin.  We’ve had bread and tea last four days.

Mrs. Yeo.  You got that Friday’s laundry job?

Mrs. Bulgin. [Dispiritedly.] They said they’d give it me, but when
I went last Friday, they were full up.  I got to go again next week.

Mrs. Yeo.  Ah!  There’s too many after that.  I send Yeo out on the ice to put on the gentry’s skates an’ pick up what ’e can.  Stops ’im from broodin’ about the ’ouse.

Mrs. Bulgin. [In a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] Leavin’ out the men—­it’s bad enough with the children.  I keep ’em in bed, they don’t get so hungry when they’re not running about; but they’re that restless in bed they worry your life out.

Mrs. Yeo.  You’re lucky they’re all so small.  It ‘s the goin’ to school that makes ’em ‘ungry.  Don’t Bulgin give you anythin’?

Mrs. Bulgin. [Shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.] Would if he could, I s’pose.

Mrs. Yeo. [Sardonically.] What!  ’Ave n’t ’e got no shares in the Company?

Mrs. Rous. [Rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] Well, good-bye, Annie Roberts, I’m going along home.