Fraternity [1]
bodies, divested of skirts and bodices, whose unruffled surface reflected daily a dozen women's souls divested of everything, her eyes became as bright as steel; but having ascertained the need of taking two inches off the chest of the gentian frock, one off its waist, three off its hips, and of adding one to its skirt, they clouded again with doubt, as though prepared to fly from the decision she had come to. Resuming her bodice, she asked:
"When could you let me have it?"
"At the end of the week, madam."
"Not till then?"
"We are very pressed, madam."
"Oh, but you must let me have it by Thursday at the latest, please."
The fitter sighed: "I will do my best."
"I shall rely on you. Mrs. Stephen Dallison, 76, The Old Square."
Going downstairs she thought: "That poor girl looked very tired; it's a shame they give them such long hours!" and she passed into the street.
A voice said timidly behind her: "Westminister, marm?"
"That's the poor old creature," thought Cecilia Dallison, "whose nose is so unpleasant. I don't really think I--" and she felt for a penny in her little bag. Standing beside the "poor old creature" was a woman clothed in worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once known a better head. The wan remains of a little bit of fur lay round her throat. She had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very clear brown eyes, and a twist of smooth black hair. Beside her was a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. Mrs. Dallison held out two-pence for the paper, but it was at the woman that she looked.
"Oh, Mrs. Hughs," she said, "we've been expecting you to hem the curtains!"
The woman slightly pressed the baby.
"I am very sorry, ma'am. I knew I was expected, but I've had such trouble."
Cecilia winced. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, m'm; it's my husband."
"Oh, dear!" Cecilia murmured. "But why didn't you come to us?"
"I didn't feel up to it, ma'am; I didn't really--"
A tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth.
Mrs. Dallison said hurriedly: "Yes, yes; I'm very sorry."
"This old gentleman, Mr. Creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband."
The old man wagged his head on its lean stalk of neck.
"He ought to know better than be'ave 'imself so disrespectable," he said.
Cecilia looked at him, and murmured: "I hope he won't turn on you!"
The old man shuffled his feet.
"I likes to live at peace with everybody. I shall have the police to 'im if he misdemeans hisself with me!... Westminister, sir?" And, screening his mouth from Mrs. Dallison, he added in a loud whisper: "Execution of the Shoreditch murderer!"
Cecilia felt suddenly as though the world were listening to her conversation with these two rather seedy persons.
"I don't really know what I can do for you, Mrs. Hughs. I'll speak to Mr. Dallison, and to Mr. Hilary too."
"Yes, ma'am; thank you, ma'am."
With a smile which seemed to deprecate its own appearance, Cecilia grasped her skirts and crossed the road. "I hope I wasn't unsympathetic," she thought, looking back at the three figures on the edge of the pavement--the old man with his papers, and his discoloured nose thrust upwards under iron-rimmed spectacles; the seamstress in her black dress; the skimpy little boy. Neither speaking nor moving, they were looking out before them at the traffic; and something in Cecilia revolted at this sight. It was lifeless, hopeless, unaesthetic.
"What can one do," she thought, "for women like Mrs. Hughs, who always look like that? And that poor old man! I suppose I oughtn't to have bought that dress, but Stephen is tired of this."
She turned out of the main street into a road preserved from commoner forms of traffic, and stopped at a long low house half hidden behind the trees of its front garden.
It was the residence of Hilary Dallison, her husband's brother, and himself the husband of Bianca, her own sister.
The queer conceit came to Cecilia that it resembled Hilary. Its look was kindly and
"When could you let me have it?"
"At the end of the week, madam."
"Not till then?"
"We are very pressed, madam."
"Oh, but you must let me have it by Thursday at the latest, please."
The fitter sighed: "I will do my best."
"I shall rely on you. Mrs. Stephen Dallison, 76, The Old Square."
Going downstairs she thought: "That poor girl looked very tired; it's a shame they give them such long hours!" and she passed into the street.
A voice said timidly behind her: "Westminister, marm?"
"That's the poor old creature," thought Cecilia Dallison, "whose nose is so unpleasant. I don't really think I--" and she felt for a penny in her little bag. Standing beside the "poor old creature" was a woman clothed in worn but neat black clothes, and an ancient toque which had once known a better head. The wan remains of a little bit of fur lay round her throat. She had a thin face, not without refinement, mild, very clear brown eyes, and a twist of smooth black hair. Beside her was a skimpy little boy, and in her arms a baby. Mrs. Dallison held out two-pence for the paper, but it was at the woman that she looked.
"Oh, Mrs. Hughs," she said, "we've been expecting you to hem the curtains!"
The woman slightly pressed the baby.
"I am very sorry, ma'am. I knew I was expected, but I've had such trouble."
Cecilia winced. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, m'm; it's my husband."
"Oh, dear!" Cecilia murmured. "But why didn't you come to us?"
"I didn't feel up to it, ma'am; I didn't really--"
A tear ran down her cheek, and was caught in a furrow near the mouth.
Mrs. Dallison said hurriedly: "Yes, yes; I'm very sorry."
"This old gentleman, Mr. Creed, lives in the same house with us, and he is going to speak to my husband."
The old man wagged his head on its lean stalk of neck.
"He ought to know better than be'ave 'imself so disrespectable," he said.
Cecilia looked at him, and murmured: "I hope he won't turn on you!"
The old man shuffled his feet.
"I likes to live at peace with everybody. I shall have the police to 'im if he misdemeans hisself with me!... Westminister, sir?" And, screening his mouth from Mrs. Dallison, he added in a loud whisper: "Execution of the Shoreditch murderer!"
Cecilia felt suddenly as though the world were listening to her conversation with these two rather seedy persons.
"I don't really know what I can do for you, Mrs. Hughs. I'll speak to Mr. Dallison, and to Mr. Hilary too."
"Yes, ma'am; thank you, ma'am."
With a smile which seemed to deprecate its own appearance, Cecilia grasped her skirts and crossed the road. "I hope I wasn't unsympathetic," she thought, looking back at the three figures on the edge of the pavement--the old man with his papers, and his discoloured nose thrust upwards under iron-rimmed spectacles; the seamstress in her black dress; the skimpy little boy. Neither speaking nor moving, they were looking out before them at the traffic; and something in Cecilia revolted at this sight. It was lifeless, hopeless, unaesthetic.
"What can one do," she thought, "for women like Mrs. Hughs, who always look like that? And that poor old man! I suppose I oughtn't to have bought that dress, but Stephen is tired of this."
She turned out of the main street into a road preserved from commoner forms of traffic, and stopped at a long low house half hidden behind the trees of its front garden.
It was the residence of Hilary Dallison, her husband's brother, and himself the husband of Bianca, her own sister.
The queer conceit came to Cecilia that it resembled Hilary. Its look was kindly and