The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. She told how they had come to London, penniless. "I think he wants to turn honest," she said, "but luck's been dead against him.... It's that difficult for one like him, and he's been in work, but he can't stick to it; and now I don't know what he's doing--no good, I fancy. Last night I got anxious and couldn't sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don't think I'm as bad as that; I've led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don't matter now, it can't be helped, it is all over with me. I don't care what becomes of me, only I thought I'd like to come and tell you. We was always friends." "You mustn't give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You're dead beat.... You've been walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and have some breakfast with us." "I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I got over that." "Come into the parlour. You'll be better when you've had breakfast. We'll see what we can do for you." "Oh, Esther, not a word of what I've been telling you to your husband. I don't want to get Bill into trouble. He'd kill me. Promise me not to mention a word of it. I oughtn't to have told you. I was so tired that I didn't know what I was saying." There was plenty to eat--fried fish, a nice piece of steak, tea and coffee. "You seem to live pretty well," said Sarah, "It must be nice to have a servant of one's own. I suppose you're doing pretty well here." "Yes, pretty well, if it wasn't for William's health." "What's the matter? Ain't he well?" "He's been very poorly lately. It's very trying work going about from race-course to race-course, standing in the mud and wet all day long.... He caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with inflammation of the lungs, and I don't think he ever quite got over it." "Don't he go no more to race meetings?" "He hasn't been to a race meeting since the beginning of the winter. It was one of them nasty steeplechase meetings that laid him up." "Do 'e drink?" "He's never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don't suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, great strong-built fellow that he is, but he's found out his mistake." "He does his betting in London now, I suppose?" "Yes," said Esther, hesitating--"when he has any to do. I want him to give it up; but trade is bad in this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and he don't think we could do without it." "It's very hard to keep it dark; some one's sure to crab it and bring the police down on you."