"A dirty lot!" muttered the young woman.

"It's very hard on you."

"It is. I'm workin' at the laundry all day when I can get it. I can't
look after the children--they get everywhere."

"Very hard," murmured the grey girl. "I'll make a note of that."

Together with the little book, in which she was writing furiously, she
had pulled out her handkerchief, and the sight of this handkerchief
reposing on the floor gave Thyme a queer satisfaction, such as comes
when one remarks in superior people the absence of a virtue existing in
oneself.

"Well, we mustn't keep you, Mrs.--Mrs.--?"

"Cleary."

"Cleary. How old's this little one? Four? And the other? Two? They are
ducks. Good-bye!"

In the corridor outside the grey girl whispered: "I do like the way we
all pride ourselves on being better than someone else. I think it's so
hopeful and jolly. Shall we go up and see the abyss at the top?"