‘Heard what?’

’Oh, I thought maybe it had got to you.  He’s lost his work, that’s all.’

‘Lost his work?’ the girl repeated, with dismay.  ‘Why?’

’Why?  What else had he to expect?  ’Tain’t likely they’ll keep a man as goes about making all his mates discontented and calling his employers names at every street corner.  I’ve been looking for it every week.  Yesterday one of the guvnors calls him up and tells him—­just in a few civil words—­as perhaps it ’ud be better for all parties if he’d find a place where he was more satisfied.  “Well an’ good,” says Dick—­you know his way—­and there he is.’

The girl had seated herself, and listened to this story with downcast eyes.  Courage seemed to fail her; she drew a long, quiet sigh.  Her face was of the kind that expresses much sweetness in irregular features.  Her look was very honest and gentle, with pathetic meanings for whoso had the eye to catch them; a peculiar mobility of the lips somehow made one think that she had often to exert herself to keep down tears.  She spoke in a subdued voice, always briefly, and with a certain natural refinement in the use of uncultured language.  When Mrs. Mutimer ceased, Emma kept silence, and smoothed the front of her jacket with an unconscious movement of the hand.

Mrs. Mutimer glanced at her and showed commiseration.

‘Well, well, don’t you worrit about it, Emma,’ she said; ’you’ve quite enough on your hands.  Dick don’t care—­not he; be couldn’t look more high-flyin’ if someone had left him a fortune.  He says it’s the best thing as could happen.  Nay, I can’t explain; he’ll tell you plenty soon as he gets in.  Cut yourself some meat, child, do, and don’t wait for me to help you.  See, I’ll turn you out some potatoes; you don’t care for the greens, I know.’

The fry had hissed vigorously whilst this conversation went on; the results were brown and unctuous.

‘Now, if it ain’t too bad!’ cried the old woman, losing self-control.  ’That ’Arry gets later every Sunday, and be knows very well as I have to wait for the beer till he comes.’

I’ll fetch it,’ said Emma, rising.

’You indeed!  I’d like to see Dick if he caught me a-sending you to the public-house.’

‘He won’t mind it for once.’

’You get on with your supper, do.  It’s only my fidgetiness; I can do very well a bit longer.  And Alice, where’s she off to, I wonder?  What it is to have a girl that age!  I wish they was all like you, Emma.  Get on with your supper, I tell you, or you’ll make me angry.  Now, it ain’t no use taking it to ’eart in that way.  I see what you’re worritin’ over.  Dick ain’t the man to be out o’ work long.’

‘But won’t it be the same at his next place?’ Emma inquired.  She was trying to eat, but it was a sad pretence.

‘Nay, there’s no telling.  It’s no good my talkin’ to him.  Why don’t you see what you can do, Emma?  ’Tain’t as if he’d no one but his own self to think about Don’t you think you could make him see that?  If anyone has a right to speak, it’s you.  Tell him as he’d ought to have a bit more thought.  It’s wait, wait, wait, and likely to be if things go on like this.  Speak up and tell him as—­’