coverable through the steam of
other windows, but the fried fish and potatoes appealed irresistibly to
the palate through the nostrils, and stood first in popularity.

The people were of the very various classes which subdivide the great
proletarian order. Children of the gutter and sexless haunters of the
street corner elbowed comfortable artisans and their wives; there were
bareheaded hoidens from the obscurest courts, and work-girls whose
self-respect was proof against all the squalor and vileness hourly
surrounding them. Of the women, whatsoever their appearance, the great
majority carried babies. Wives, themselves scarcely past childhood,
balanced shawl-enveloped bantlings against heavy market-baskets. Little
girls of nine or ten were going from stall to stall, making purchases
with the confidence and acumen of old housekeepers; slight fear that
they would fail to get their money's worth. Children, too, had the
business of sale upon their hands: ragged urchins went about with
blocks of salt, importuning the marketers, and dishevelled girls
carried bundles of assorted vegetables, crying, 'A penny all the lot! A
penny the 'ole lot!'

The public-houses were full. Through the gaping doors you saw a
tightly-packed crowd of men, women, and children, drinking at the bar
or waiting to have their jugs filled, tobacco smoke wreathing above
their heads. With few exceptions the frequenters of the Walk turned
into the public-house as a natural incident of the evening's business.
The women with the babies grew thirsty in the hot, foul air of the
street, and invited each other to refreshment of varying strength,
chatting the while of their most intimate affairs, the eternal 'says
I,' 'says he,' 'says she,' of vulgar converse. They stood indifferently
by the side of liquor-sodden creatures whose look was pollution.
Companies of girls, neatly dressed and as far from depravity as
possible, called for their glasses of small beer, and came forth again
with merriment in treble key.

When the sisters had done their business at the boot-maker's, and were
considering what their purchase should be for Sunday's dinner, Thyrza
caught sight of Totty Nancarrow entering a shop. At once she said: 'I
won't be late back, Lyddy. I'm just going to walk a little way with
Totty.'

Lydia's face showed annoyance.

'Where is she?' she asked, looking back.

'In the butcher's just there.'

'Don't go to-night, Thyrza. I'd rather you didn't.'

'I