omen across the tailor-shop, seeing each other.

"I came for my husband's--for Mr. Breddan's dress suit. Mr. Lanich told
him it would be ready at seven?"

Esther Lanich moved, Sophie Breddan stood. Between slow dark curve,
swift dark stroke of these two women, under a tailor's table the burn of
a dirty child, mumbling intent with scizzors between her soiled frail
legs, at play with loose hair.

"Is this the one?"

The curve and the stroke came near across the table.

"Yes."

Eyes met.--She is tidy and fresh, less beautiful, though, than I. She
has no child. She has a flat with Sun and a swell husband who wears a
swallow-tail and takes her out to parties. She has a diamond ring, her
corsets are sweet. She has things to put into her time like candies into
her mouth, like loved kisses into my mouth. She is all new with her
smooth skin going below the collar of her suit.

--She has a child, and she lets her play dirty with scizzors under a
tailor table. "How much is it?"--After a decent bedtime.

--Does she think I care about this? "Oh, no hurry. Better come in and
pay my--Mr. Lanich. Any time."

The clang of the bell.

Esther is seated. Her grey tilted eyes seem sudden to stand upon the
farther wall of her husband's shop, and to look upon her. Her eyes speak
soft warm words that touch her hair, touch her lips, lie like caressing
fingers upon the soft cloth that lies upon her breast.

--Less beautiful than I, though. My flesh is soft and sweat, it is the
colour of cream. What for? My hair is like an autumn tree gleaming with
sun. I can let it fall through the high channel of my breast against my
stomach that does not bulge but lies soft and low like a cushion of
silk. What for? My eyes see beauty. What for? O there is no God. If
there is God, what for?--He will come back and work. He will eat and
work. He is kind and good. What for? When he is excited with love,
doesn't he make an ugly noise with his nose? What else does he make with
his love?--Another like Flora? God forbid. What for?

She did not pull down the wide yellow shade, though it was night. The
street was a ribbon of velvet blackness laid beside the hurting and
sharp brightness of the store. The yellow light was hard like grains of
sand under the quick of her nails. She was afraid of the street. She was
hurt in the store. But the brightness clamped her. She did not move.--O
let no more customers come! "Keep quiet, Flora." I can not move.--She
was c