''Oh, now!'' Her fingers clench about my hand; then slacken, then pat. ''Still seems rather queer to you, does it, sweetheart?'' she says. ''Never mind. What can we get you, that will lift your spirits? Hey? A posy of flowers? A bow, for your pretty hair? A trinket box? A singing bird, in a cage?'' Perhaps I make some movement. Aha! Where''s John? John, here''s a shilling—it''s a bad one, so hand it over fast—nip out and get Miss Lilly a bird in a cage.—Yellow bird, my dear, or blue?—No matter, John, so long as it''s pretty . . .''
She winks. John goes, and returns in half an hour with a finch in a wicker basket. They fuss about that, then. They hang it from a beam, they shake it to make it flutter; Charley Wag, the dog, leaps and whines beneath it. It will not sing, however—the room is too dark—it will only beat and pluck at its wings and bite the bars of its cage. At last they forget it. John takes to feeding it the blue heads of matches—he says he plans, in time, to make it swallow a long wick, and then to ignite it.
Of Sue, no-one speaks at all. Once, Dainty looks at me as she puts out our suppers, and scratches her ear.
''Funny thing,'' she says, ''how Sue ain''t come back from the country, yet. Ain''t it?''
Mrs Sucksby glances at Richard, at Mr Ibbs, and then at me. She wets her mouth. ''Look here,'' she says to Dainty, ''I haven''t wanted to talk about it, but you might as well know it, now. The truth is, Sue ain''t coming back, not ever. That last little bit of business that Gentleman left her to see to had money in. More money than was meant for her share. She''s up and cut, Dainty, with the cash.''