inking--as she was uncontrollably doing--of
Sally's future. Old Perce took out his pipe at last.

"I'm just going to step in the other room, Sally," he remarked, "and
have a pipe and a bit of a tune. I'll see you later--you ladies," he
added gallantly, with a bow. And then he withdrew, leaving them alone,
with Sally's cheeks flushed at the warmth and the subject they had been
considering. All the time old Perce had been talking she had been
wishing that Toby had been there to hear. Then he'd have seen what these
people thought of her. They didn't think of her face; they didn't go off
in a huff because she had been too ill to go out one evening. They
knew.... Tears filled her eyes. She stared at the red fire in the grate.
Mrs. Perce had her back turned, filling the kettle for the inevitable
washing-up, and so she did not see this sudden arrival of tragic
reflection. All she saw was a willing Sally gathering the dishes and
scraping the fishbones together ready for throwing behind the fire. How
was Mrs. Perce to visualise that other tea, that lonely figure in the
other room? How was anybody to understand why Sally was so different
from what she had been at home?

Over the washing-up, the two became confidential. Sally broached the
subject of the West End. She dilated upon it. Mrs. Perce was all
sympathy, and full of agreement.

"You're quite right," she said. "And I'm glad. I wish I could help you.
Now, can I?" She thought a moment. "Wait a bit. Wait a bit."

She went out of the room. Amid the din of "There you are, there you are,
there you ain't--ain't--ain't," Sally heard her call: "Perce, what's the
name Maggie Merrick calls herself now?" There was a silence. The door of
the other room was closed. Sally, standing by the kitchen table, drying
a plate, strained her ears unavailingly. A silence was upon the flat.
Only the fire huskily caved in, and little darting sparks flew into the
air. It was as though her life hung suspended. Then, in a few minutes,
Mrs. Perce returned, a triumphant beam upon her face. "You go and see
Maggie on Monday," she said. "I'll write her a letter. She calls herself
Gala--Madame Gala. Got a place round behind Regent Street, and about
twenty hands. She's a very old friend of mine.... I'll give you a letter
to-night. Just say you come from Polly Barrow. She'll see you. Course, I
can't be sure...."

"No, no!" Sally's concurrence was eager. Her heart was like a flame.
"You _are_ kind to me, Mrs