“There ain’t no apple-blossoms there,” chuckling; “nor no smell of ’em.  ’T ain’t as nice as its nime is—­Apple Blossom Court ain’t.”

“What do you want to buy?  A pair of shoes?” The shoes her naked feet were thrust into were leprous-looking things through which nearly all her toes protruded.  But she chuckled when he spoke.

“No, I ‘m goin’ to buy a di’mond tirarer to go to the opery in,” she said, dragging her old sack closer round her neck.  “I ain’t ad a noo un since I went to the last Drorin’-room.”

It was impudent street chaff, but there was cheerful spirit in it, and cheerful spirit has some occult effect upon morbidity.  Antony Dart did not smile, but he felt a faint stirring of curiosity, which was, after all, not a bad thing for a man who had not felt an interest for a year.

“What is it you are going to buy?”

“I’m goin’ to fill me stummick fust,” with a grin of elation.  “Three thick slices o’ bread an’ drippin’ an’ a mug o’ cawfee.  An’ then I’m goin’ to get sumethin’ ’earty to carry to Polly.  She ain’t no good, pore thing!”

“Who is she?”

Stopping a moment to drag up the heel of her dreadful shoe, she answered him with an unprejudiced directness which might have been appalling if he had been in the mood to be appalled.

“Ain’t eighteen, an’ tryin’ to earn ‘er livin’ on the street.  She ain’t made for it.  Little country thing, allus frightened to death an’ ready to bust out cryin’.  Gents ain’t goin’ to stand that.  A lot of ’em wants cheerin’ up as much as she does.  Gent as was in liquor last night knocked ‘er down an’ give ’er a black eye.  ‘T wan’t ill feelin’, but he lost his temper, an’ give ’er a knock casual.  She can’t go out to-night, an’ she’s been ‘uddled up all day cryin’ for ’er mother.”

“Where is her mother?”

“In the country—­on a farm.  Polly took a place in a lodgin’-’ouse an’ got in trouble.  The biby was dead, an’ when she come out o’ Queen Charlotte’s she was took in by a woman an’ kep’.  She kicked ’er out in a week ‘cos of her cryin’.  The life didn’t suit ’er.  I found ‘er cryin’ fit to split ‘er chist one night—­corner o’ Apple Blossom Court—­an’ I took care of ’er.”

“Where?”

“Me chambers,” grinning; “top loft of a ’ouse in the court.  If anyone else ’d ’ave it I should be turned out.  It’s an ’ole, I can tell yer—­ but it’s better than sleepin’ under the bridges.”

“Take me to see it,” said Antony Dart.  “I want to see the girl.”

The words spoke themselves.  Why should he care to see either cockloft or girl?  He did not.  He wanted to go back to his lodgings with that which he had come out to buy.  Yet he said this thing.  His companion looked up at him with an expression actually relieved.

“Would yer tike up with ’er?” with eager sharpness, as if confronting a simple business proposition.  “She’s pretty an’ clean, an’ she won’t drink a drop o’ nothin’.  If she was treated kind she’d be cheerfler.  She’s got a round fice an’ light ‘air an’ eyes.  ’Er ’air’s curly.  P’raps yer’d like ’er.”