"And you tell her she's only killing herself by doing it."

Hopelessly bewildered, Mr Farthing clumped downstairs.

Mavis laughed long and softly at this refutation of Mrs Farthing's
pretensions. Before she again settled down to the enjoyment of her
book, she looked once more about the cleanly, comfortable room,
which had an indefinable atmosphere of home.

"Yes, yes," thought Mavis, "it is--it is good to be alive."




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SPRINGTIME


Days passed swiftly for Mavis; weeks glided into months, months into
seasons. When the anniversary of the day on which she had commenced
work at the boot factory came round, she could not believe that she
had been at Melkbridge a year. When she had padded the streets of
London in quest of work, she had many times told herself that she
had only to secure a weekly wage in order to be happy. Now this
desire was attained, she found (as who has not?) that satisfaction
in one direction breeds hunger in another. Although her twenty
shillings a week had been increased to twenty-five, and she
considerably augmented this sum by teaching music to pupils to whom
Mr Medlicott recommended her, Mavis was by no means content. Her