After this last word she pauses. She pats the space at her side. ''Won''t you sit, dear girl? Don''t care to? Hmm? Perhaps in a minute, then.'' The bed has a blanket upon it—a quilt of coloured squares, roughly knitted, and roughly sewn together. She begins to pluck at one of its seams, as if in distraction. ''Now, what was I speaking of?'' she says, her eyes on mine.
''Of ladies,'' says Richard.
She moves her hand, lifts her finger. ''Of ladies,'' she says. ''That''s right. Of course, there come so few true ladies, you find they rather sticks in the mind. I remember one, particular, that came—oh, how long ago? Sixteen years? Seventeen? Eighteen . . .?'' She watches my face. ''Seems a long time to you, sweetheart, I dare say. Seems a lifetime, don''t it? Only wait, dear girl, till you are my age. The years all run together, then. All run together, like so many tears . . .'' She gives a jerk of her head, draws in her breath in a backwards sigh, quick and rueful. She waits. But I have grown still, and cold, and cautious, and say nothing. So then she goes on.
''Well, this particular lady,'' she says, ''she wasn''t much older than you are now. But wasn''t she in a fix? She had got my name from a woman in the Borough, that did girls and their complaints. You know what I am saying, dear? Made girls be poorly, in the regular way, when their poorliness had stopped?'' She moves her hand, makes a face. ''I never bothered with that. That was out of my line. My idea was, if it wasn''t going to kill you on its way out, then have