Hughs?"

"Yes, m'm, thank you, m'm."

"I shall have another job for you to-morrow--altering a dress. Can you
come?"

"Yes, m'm, thank you, m'm."

"Is the baby well?"

"Yes, m'm, thank you, m'm."

There was a silence.

'It's no good talking of her domestic matters,' thought Cecilia; 'not
that I don't care!' But the silence getting on her nerves, she said
quickly: "Is your husband behaving himself better?"

There was no answer; Cecilia saw a tear trickle slowly down the woman's
cheek.

'Oh dear, oh dear,' she thought; 'poor thing! I'm in for it!'

Mrs. Hughs' whispering voice began: "He's behaving himself dreadful,
m'm. I was going to speak to you. It's ever since that young girl"--her
face hardened--"come to live down in my room there; he seem to--he seem
to--just do nothing but neglect me."

Cecilia's heart gave the little pleasurable flutter which the heart must
feel at the love dramas of other people, however painful.

"You mean the little model?" she said.

The seamstress answered in an agitated voice: "I don't want to speak
against her, but she's put a spell on him, that's what she has; he don't
seem able to do nothing but talk of her, and hang about her room. It was
that troubling me when I saw you the other day. And ever since yesterday
midday, when Mr. Hilary came--he's been talking that wild--and he pushed
me--and--and---" Her lips ceased to form articulate words, but, since it
was not etiquette to cry before her superiors, she used them to swallow
down her tears, and something in her lean throat moved up and down.

At the mention of Hilary's name the pleasurable sensation in Cecilia had
undergone a change. She felt curiosity, fear, offence.

"I don't quite understand you," she said.

The seamstress plaited at her frock. "Of course, I can't help the way
he talks, m'm. I'm sure I don't like to repeat the wicked things he says
about Mr. Hilary. It seems as if he were out of his mind when he gets
talkin' about that young girl."

The tone of those last three words was almost fierce.

Cecilia was on the point of saying: 'That will do, please; I want
to hear no more.' But her curiosity and queer subtle fear forced her
instead to repeat: "I don't understand. Do you mean he insinuates that
Mr. Hilary has anything to do with--with this girl, or what?" And she
thought: 'I'll stop that, at any rate.'

The seamstress's face was distorted by her efforts to control her voice.

"I tell him he's wicked