Mrs. Megan. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin’ a picture of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case you’d forgotten.

Wellwyn. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly?

Mrs. Megan. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep ’em covered up, but the cold gets to ’em.  Thruppence—­that’s all I’ve took.

Wellwyn.  Ho!  Tt!  Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!

Mrs. Megan.  They’re dead.

Wellwyn. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?

Mrs. Megan.  He plays cards.

Wellwyn.  Oh, Lord!  And what are you doing out—­with a cold like that? [He taps his chest.]

Mrs. Megan.  We was sold up this morning—­he’s gone off with ’is mates.  Haven’t took enough yet for a night’s lodgin’.

Wellwyn. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who buys flowers at this time of night?

     [Mrs. Megan looks at him, and faintly smiles.]

Wellwyn. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us!  Here!  Come to the fire!

     [She follows him to the fire.  He shuts the street door.]

Wellwyn.  Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and take them off.  That’s right.

[She sits on the stool.  And after a slow look up at him, which has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years, begins taking off her shoes and stockings.  Wellwyn goes to the door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of stealthy casualness.  He returns whistling, but not out loud.  The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her bare toes to the flames.  She shuffles them back under her skirt.]

Wellwyn.  How old are you, my child?

Mrs. Megan.  Nineteen, come Candlemas.

Wellwyn.  And what’s your name?

Mrs. Megan.  Guinevere.

Wellwyn.  What?  Welsh?

Mrs. Megan.  Yes—­from Battersea.

Wellwyn.  And your husband?

Mrs. Megan.  No.  Irish, ’e is.  Notting Dale, ’e comes from.

Wellwyn.  Roman Catholic?

Mrs. Megan.  Yes.  My ’usband’s an atheist as well.

Wellwyn.  I see. [Abstractedly.] How jolly!  And how old is he—­this young man of yours?

Mrs. Megan.  ’E’ll be twenty soon.

Wellwyn.  Babes in the wood!  Does he treat you badly?

Mrs. Megan.  No.

Wellwyn.  Nor drink?

Mrs. Megan.  No.  He’s not a bad one.  Only he gets playin’ cards then ’e’ll fly the kite.

Wellwyn.  I see.  And when he’s not flying it, what does he do?