Part 3 (2/2)

”Oh, no, you ain't,” said Connie, who was proud enough in her way.

”Yes, but I be,” said Agnes; ”I ha' lots o' money, bless yer! Here, we'll come in here.”

An A.B.C. shop stood invitingly open just across the road. Connie had always looked at these places of refreshment with open-eyed admiration, and with the sort of sensation which one would have if one stood at the gates of Paradise. To enter any place so gorgeous as an A.B.C., to be able to sit down and have one's tea or coffee or any other refreshment at one of those little white marble tables, seemed to her a degree of refinement scarcely to be thought about. The A.B.C. was a sort of forbidden fruit to Connie, but Agnes had been there before, and Agnes had described the delight of the place.

”The quality come in 'ere,” said Agnes, ”an' they horders all sorts o'

things, from mutton-chops to poached heggs. I am goin' in to-day, and so be you.”

”Oh, no,” said Connie, ”you can't afford it.”

”That's my lookout,” answered Agnes. ”I've half-a-crown in my pocket, and ef I choose to have a good filling meal, and ef I choose that you shall have one too, why, that is my lookout.”

As Agnes spoke she pulled her companion through the swinging door, and a minute later the two young girls had a little table between them, not far from the door. Agnes called in a lofty voice to one of the waitresses.

”Coffee for two,” she said, ”and rolls and b.u.t.ter and poached heggs; and see as the heggs is well done, and the toast b.u.t.tered fine and thick.

Now then, look spruce, won't yer?”

The waitress went off to attend to Agnes's requirements. Agnes sat back in her chair with a sort of lofty, fine-lady air which greatly impressed poor Connie. By-and-by the coffee, the rolls and b.u.t.ter, and the poached eggs appeared. A little slip of paper with the price of the meal was laid close to Agnes's plate, and she proceeded to help her companion to the good viands.

”It's this sort of meal you want hevery day,” she said. ”Now then, eat as hard as ever you can, and while you're eating let me talk, for there's a deal to say, and we must be back in that factory afore we can half do justice to our wittles.”

Connie sipped her coffee, and looked hard at her companion.

”What is it?” she asked suddenly. ”What's all the fuss, Agnes? Why be you so chuff to poor Sue, and whatever 'ave you got to say?”

”This,” said Agnes. ”You're sick o' machine-work, ain't you?”

”Oh, that I be!” said Connie, stretching her arms a little, and suppressing a yawn. ”It seems to get on my narves, like. I am that miserable when I'm turning that horrid handle and pressing that treadle up and down, up and down, as no words can say. I 'spect it's the hair so full of fluff an' things, too; some'ow I lose my happet.i.te for my or'nary feed when I'm working at that 'orrid machine.”

”I don't feel it that way,” said Agnes in a lofty tone. ”But then, _I_ am wery strong. I can heat like anything, whatever I'm a-doing of.

There, Connie; don't waste the good food. Drink up yer corffee, and don't lose a sc.r.a.p o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful waste. Well, now, let me speak. I know quite a different sort o' work that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening I can tell yer all about it.”

”What sort of work?” asked Connie.

”Beautiful, refined--the sort as you love. But I am not going to tell yer ef yer give me away.”

”What do you mean by that, Agnes?”

”I means wot I say--I'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me.”

”Yer mean that I'm to spend all the evening with yer?” asked Connie.

”Yes--that's about it. _You_ are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk.

Why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all alone by yer lonesome? You give me a promise. And now I must pay hup, and we'll be off.”

”I'll come, o' course,” said Connie after brief reflection. ”Why shouldn't I?” she added. ”There's naught to keep me to home.”

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