ter go with 'im, but I wouldn't.'
'Swop me bob why not?'
'I ain't keeping company with 'im.'
'Yer might 'ave gone with 'im all the sime.'
'Na. You're goin' with 'Arry, ain't yer?'
'Yus!'
'An' you're goin' to 'ave 'im?'
'Right again!'
'Well, I couldn't go with Tom, and then throw him over.'
'Well, you are a mug!'
The two girls had strolled down towards the Westminster Bridge Road, and Sally, meeting her young man, had gone to him. Liza walked back, wishing to get home in time to cook the dinner. But she went slowly, for she knew every dweller in the street, and as she passed the groups sitting at their doors, as on the previous evening, but this time mostly engaged in peeling potatoes or shelling peas, she stopped and had a little chat. Everyone liked her, and was glad to have her company. 'Good old Liza,' they would say, as she left them, 'she's a rare good sort, ain't she?'
She asked after the aches and pains of all the old people, and delicately inquired after the babies, past and future; the children hung on to her skirts and asked her to play with them, and she would hold one end of the rope while tiny little ragged girls skipped, invariably entangling themselves after two jumps.
She had nearly reached home, when she heard a voice cry:
'Mornin'!'
She looked round and recognized the man whom Tom had told her was called Jim Blakeston. He was sitting on a stool at the door of one of the houses, playing with two young children, to whom he was giving rides on his knee. She remembered his heavy brown beard from the day before, and she had also an impression of great size; she noticed this morning that he was, in fact, a big man, tall and broad, and she saw besides that he had large, masculine features and pleasant brown eyes. She supposed him to be about forty.
'Mornin'!' he said again, as she stopped and looked at him.
'Well, yer needn't look as if I was goin' ter eat yer up, 'cause I ain't,' he said.
Oo are you? I'm not afeard of yer.'
'Wot are yer so bloomin' red abaht?' he asked pointedly.
'Well, I'm 'ot.'
'You ain't shirty 'cause I kissed yer last night?'
'I'm not shirty; but it was pretty cool, considerin' like as I didn't know yer.'
'Well, you run into my arms.'
'Thet I didn't; you run aht and caught me.'
'An' kissed yer before you could say "Jack Robinson".' He laughed at the thought. 'Well, Liza,' he went on, 'seein' as 'ow I kissed yer against yer will, the best thing you can do ter make it up is to kiss me not against yer will.'
'Me?' said Liza, looking at him, open-mouthed. 'Well you are a pill!'
The children began to clamour for the riding, which had been discontinued on Liza's approach.
'Are them your kids?' she asked.
'Yus; them's two on 'em.'
Ow many 'ave yer got?'
'Five; the eldest gal's fifteen, and the next one 'oo's a boy's twelve, and then there are these two and baby.'
'Well, you've got enough for your money.'
'Too many for me and more comin'.'
'Ah well,' said Liza, laughing, 'thet's your fault, ain't it?'
Then she bade him good morning, and strolled off.
He watched her as she went, and saw half a dozen little boys surround her and beg her to join them in their game of cricket. They caught hold of her arms and skirts, and pulled her to their pitch.
'No, I can't,' she said trying to disengage herself. 'I've got the dinner ter cook.'
'Dinner ter cook?' shouted one small boy. 'Why, they always cooks the cats' meat at the shop.'
'You little so-and-so!' said Liza, somewhat inelegantly, making a dash at him.
He dodged her and gave a whoop; then turning he caught her round the legs, and another boy catching hold of her round the neck they dragged her down, and all three struggled on the ground, rolling over and over; the other boys threw themselves on the top, so that there was a great heap of legs and arms and heads waving and bobbing up and down.
Liza extricated herself with some difficulty, and taking off her hat she began cuffing the boys with it, using all the time the most lively expressions. Then, having cleared the field, she retired victorious into her own house and began cooking the dinner.
Chapter 4
Bank Holiday was a beautiful day: the cloudless sky threatened a stifling heat for noontide, but early in the morning, when Liza got out of bed and threw open the window, it was fresh and cool. She dressed herself, wondering how she should spend her day; she thought of Sally going off to Chingford with her lover, and of herself remaining alone in the dull street with half the people away. She almost wished it were an ordinary work-day, and that there were no such things as bank holidays. And it seemed to be a little like two Sundays running, but with the second rather worse than the first. Her mother was still sleeping, and she was in no great hurry about getting the breakfast, but stood quietly looking out of the window at the house opposite.
In a little while she saw Sally coming along. She was arrayed in purple and fine linen a very smart red dress, trimmed with velveteen, and a tremendous hat covered with feathers. She had reaped the benefit of keeping her hair in curl-papers since Saturday, and her sandy fringe stretched from ear to ear. She was in enormous spirits.
Ulloa, Liza!' she called as soon as she saw her at the window.
Liza looked at her a little enviously.
Ulloa!' she answered quietly.
'I'm just goin' to the "Red Lion" to meet 'Arry.'
'At what time d'yer start?'
'The brake leaves at 'alf-past eight sharp.'
'Why, it's only eight; it's only just struck at the church. 'Arry won't be there yet, will he?'
'Oh, 'e's sure ter be early. I couldn't wite. I've been witin' abaht since 'alf-past six. I've been up since five this morning.'
'Since five! What 'ave you been doin'?'
'Dressin' myself and doin' my 'air. I woke up so early. I've been dreamin' all the night abaht it. I simply couldn't sleep.'
'Well,
