Suffuse her face, as though her thought Had ventured further than it ought. But O that colour's rapturous singing And the answer in her lone heart ringing! She turns (O Guardian Angels, stop her From doing anything improper!) She turns; and see, she stoops and bungles In through the sand-shoes' hanging jungles, Away from light and common sense, Into the shop dim-lit and dense With smells of polish and tanned hide. Mrs. Watson. Soon from a dark recess inside Fat Mrs. Watson comes slip-slop To mind the business of the shop. She walks flat-footed with a roll-- A serviceable, homely soul, With kindly, ugly face like dough, Hair dull and colourless as tow. A huge Scotch pebble fills the space Between her bosom and her face. One sees her making beds all day. Miss Thompson lets her say her say: 'So chilly for the time of year. It's ages since we saw you here.' Then, heart a-flutter, speech precise, Describes the shoes and asks the price. 'Them, Miss? Ah, them is six-and-nine.' Miss Thompson shudders down the spine (Dream of impossible romance). She eyes them with a wistful glance, Torn between good and evil. Yes, Wrestles with For half-a-minute and no less a Temptation; Miss Thompson strives with seven devils, Then, soaring over earthly levels, And is Saved. Turns from the shoes with lingering touch-- 'Ah, six-and-nine is far too much. Sorry to trouble you. Good day!'