"'Oh Liza, sweet Liza,
If you die an old maid you'll have only yourself to blame ...'"

It was like a sudden noise in a forest at night, so poignant was the
contrast of the radiating silences that succeeded. Jenny's voice stopped
sharply. Perhaps it had occurred to her that her song would be
overheard. Perhaps she had herself become affected by the meaning of the
words she was so carelessly singing. There was once more an air of
oblivion over all things. The old man sank back in his chair, puffing
slowly, blue smoke from the bowl of the pipe, grey smoke from between
his lips. Emmy looked again at the clock. She had the listening air of
one who awaits a bewildering event. Once she shivered, and bent to the
fire, raking among the red tumbling small coal with the bent kitchen
poker. Jenny began to whistle again, and Emmy impatiently wriggled her
shoulders, jarred by the noise. Suddenly she could bear no longer the
whistle that pierced her thoughts and distracted her attention, but went
out to the scullery.

"How are you getting on?" she asked with an effort.

"Fine. This gas leaks. Can't you whiff it? Don't know which one it is.
Pa all right?"

"Yes, he's all right. Nearly finished?"

"Getting on. Tram nearly ran over a kid to-night. She was wheeling a pram
full of washing on the line. There wasn't half a row about it--shouting
and swearing. Anybody would have thought the kid had laid down on the
line. I expect she was frightened out of her wits--all those men
shouting at her. There, now I'll lay it on the plate rack over the gas