‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. “That is where I got confused,” he said. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste.
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