"Then don't think of it again," said Nell cheerfully, "for, indeed,
there is no cause to pity me. At first----" She stopped, and her brows
knit with the memory of the first few weeks of Beaumont Buildings.
"Well, at first it was rather--trying; but after a while one gets
used----"
"Used to the infernal--I beg your pardon--the incessant bangings on a
piano, and the wailings of Tommy Jones. But you wouldn't complain even
if you still suffered as keenly as you did when you first came. I know.
Sometimes I feel that I would give ten years of my life if I could hear
you say 'Good-by, Mr. Falconer; we are going!' though God knows
I--we--should all miss you badly enough."
There came a knock at the door--a soft, dull knock, followed by a rattle
of the handle--and a mite of a boy stood in the opening, inhaling the
scent of the tea and toast, and gazing wide-eyed at the two occupants of
the room.
"Please, mother ses will 'oo lend her free lumps o' sugar, Miss 'Orton;
'cos she've run out."
"Of course I will! And come in, Tommy!" said Nell. "There you are!"
She wrapped half the contents of the sugar basin in a piece of paper and
gave it him; then, seeing his eyes fixed wistfully on the pile of
buttered toast, she took a couple of slices, arranged them in sandwich
fashion, butter side inward, and put them into his chubby and grimy
fist. "There you are. And, Tommy, you'll be a good boy, and won't eat
any of the sugar, will you?"
"No; I'll be dood, Miss 'Orton. I'll promise I'll be dood."
"Then there's one lump all to yourself!" she said, sticking it into the
other fist. "Open the door for him, Mr. Falconer; and don't watch him up
the stairs; he'll keep his promise," she added, in a low voice, as she
searched for a comparatively clean spot on Tommy's face on which to kiss
him.
"Go on--you lucky young beggar!" said Falconer, under his breath, and
eying Tommy enviously.
"If you've any pity to waste, spend it on the children," said Nell, with
a sigh. "Oh, what would I give to be a fairy, just for one day, and
whisk them off to the seaside, into the open fields, anywhere out of
Beaumont Buildings. Sometimes, when I see the women drive by in their
carriages, with a lap dog on their knees or stuck up beside them, it
makes me feel wicked! I want to stick my head out of the window and
call put: 'Come up here and fetch some of the children for a drive; I'll
take care of the dog while you're gone!' Dick's late!" she broke off;
"we'd better begin. Help me wheel the table down to the window."