"At the end of the week, madam."

"Not till then?"

"We are very pressed, madam."

"Oh, but you must let me have it by Thursday at the latest, please."

The fitter sighed: "I will do my best."

"I shall rely on you. Mrs. Stephen Dallison, 76, The Old Square."

Going downstairs she thought: "That poor girl looked very tired; it's a
shame they give them such long hours!" and she passed into the street.

A voice said timidly behind her: "Westminister, marm?"

"That's the poor old creature," thought Cecilia Dallison, "whose nose is
so unpleasant. I don't really think I--" and she felt for a penny in her
little bag. Standing beside the "poor old creature" was a woman clothed
in worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once
known a better head. The wan remains of a little bit of fur lay round
her throat. She had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very
clear brown eyes, and a twist of smooth black hair. Beside her was
a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. Mrs. Dallison held out
two-pence for the paper, but it was at the woman that she looked.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughs," she said, "we've been expecting you to hem the
curtains!"