"No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not!"

"Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes."

The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the
laugh that came after would have softened any repartee, with its
undernote of good humour and harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to
preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine
through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about
the staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house
smells--the closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the
dry rot of wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of
clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours from a
sluttish kitchen. As Moggie happened to be wiping down the front
steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse of trams and
omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless
variety--the life of Kennington Road--all dust and sweat under a
glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting
spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble
until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of
selling programmes at a fashionable theatre. The employment was
precarious; even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very
brilliant; but something had happened lately which made Polly
indifferent to this view of the matter. She had a secret, and
enjoyed it all the more because it enabled her to excite not envy
alone, but dark suspicions in the people who observed her.

Mrs. Bubb, for instance--who so far presumed upon old acquaintance
as to ask blunt questions, and offer homely advice--plainly thought