“You see,” said the grey girl's faintly smiling lips, “you soon get the feeling of having to go through with it. We all realise it's got to be done, of course. Your cousin's one of the best of us; nothing seems to put him out. He has such a nice sort of scornful kindness. I'd rather work with him than anyone.” She looked past her new associate into that world outside, where the sky seemed all wires and yellow heat-dust. She did not notice Thyme appraising her from head to foot, with a stare hostile and jealous, but pathetic, too, as though confessing that this girl was her superior. “I'm sure I can't do that work!” she said suddenly. The grey girl smiled. “Oh, I thought that at first.” Then, with an admiring look: “But I do think it's rather a shame for you, you're so pretty. Perhaps they'd put you on to tabulation work, though that's awfully dull. We'll ask your cousin.” “No; I'll do the whole or nothing.” “Well,” said the grey girl, “I've got one house left to-day. Would you like to come and see the sort of thing?” She took a small notebook from a side pocket in her skirt. “I can't get on without a pocket. You must have something that you can't leave behind. I left four little bags and two dozen handkerchiefs in five weeks before I came back to pockets. It's rather a horrid house, I'm afraid!” “I shall be all right,” said Thyme shortly. In the shop doorway the young tobacconist was taking the evening air. He greeted them with his polite but constitutionally leering smile. “Good-evening, mith,” he said; “nithe evening!” “He's rather an awful little man,” the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; “but he's got quite a nice sense of humour.” “Ah!” said Thyme. They had turned into a by-street, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. Its windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an evil-looking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. Thyme felt a little gulping sensation. There was a putrid scent as of burning refuse. She looked at her companion. The grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a faint smile on her lips. And in Thyme's heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so business-like in the presence of such sights and scents. The door was opened by a young red-faced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep. The grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. “Oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?” she said. “It would be so good of you. We're making a report.” “There's nothing to report here,” the young woman answered. But the grey girl had slipped as gently past as though she had been the very spirit of adventure. “Of course, I see that, but just as a matter of form, you know.” “I've parted with most of my things,” the young woman said defensively, “since my husband died. It's a hard life.” “Yes, yes, but not worse than mine--always poking my nose into other people's houses.”