er
looked at her. But May picked up the good-looking ones, and Sally had to
take what was left. She hated to see her boy always looking on at the
others, at May, and never at herself; she hated to know that her boy
didn't like the look of her, and that he couldn't think of anything to
say to her; and didn't take the trouble to think very hard. It made
Sally snap her teeth. One day, she reassured herself, it would be
different. One day, they'd _know_.

Slowly she stretched, with her arms high above her head and her mouth
stretched sideways in a yawn. Was mother asleep? She felt cramped and
tired, and as she turned round to the light her eyes blinked at the
contrast with the outer darkness.

ii

"Oo!" groaned Sally. "Tired!"

She yawned again, a yawn that ended in a breathless gasp. Mrs. Minto
looked across the room at her.

"D'you want any supper?" she asked.

"Wotcher got? Peaches and cream, and a glass of champagne?"

Mrs. Minto wriggled her skinny shoulders and fingered her chin.

"Don't you be saucy to me, my gel. There's a bit of dry bread on the
plate there. And half a glass of stout. You might think yourself lucky
to get _that_."

"Well, I s'pose I might. But somehow I don't. Dry bread! It's Saturday,
ain't it? What I mean, pay-day."

There was a sour glance. Mrs. Minto sighed, and looked at the clock,
frowning and wriggling her shoulders. It was a form of constant drill or
shudder that affected her.

"Yes," she said. "And your father not home. Pubs are closed. Wonder
where he is. Come on, Sally. Get your supper and get to bed. Sharp,
now."

Sally rose to her feet and walked across the room. She cut a hunk of
bread, and stood about munching it, little crumbs gathering upon her
lips. You could see how thin she was when her arm was raised. Yet she
made a few little dancing steps as she ate, and her face was not without
a comical air of mischief. She was an urchin, and she looked it. She was
unscrupulous, and a liar; but she knew a great deal for her years, and
she never shrank from knowledge, because she was athirst for it.
Knowledge which could be turned to account was her preoccupation. She
stood looking at her mother, weighing her up, and in the midst of her
daughterly contempt she had room for a little admiration also. They were
not altogether unlike; but Mrs. Minto had taken the wrong turning. She
had married a drinker, and was a slave. Well, Sally had benefited by
knowledge of that. She migh