‘I had to inquire where you lived,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘You did not even tell me that. You once mentioned that you lived on the Townfield, and I thought I should never find your house; but the first person I met told me where you lived. But would you never have come?’ ‘I--I hardly liked to come. I did not know whether you might have been--displeased, perhaps,’ he said, with some embarrassment. ‘My uncle has often asked when you were coming. He wants to see you again. But now you will come soon--yes?’ ‘I--yes. I should like to,’ said he. ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming here,’ said Adrienne to Mary. ‘Eh, no! Lord, no!’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘I’m reet glad to see you. Yon chap would ne’er ha’ told us what he’d been doin’. He’s so--stupid.’ ‘Yes--so I should think,’ said Adrienne, meeting Mary’s eyes with a smile. And then, looking at Edmund, she said, ‘I’ve heard of you, too. You are not strong.’ ‘No,’ said Mary, answering for him. ‘He’s ne’er one o’ th’ strongest, and to-day he’s getten a headache.’ ‘Don’t you do anything for your headaches?’ ‘Nay, I jist bide ’em out.’ ‘That is a pity. I could do something for them--if I come again, I will bring you something that will do them good.’ She went on talking to Mary and Edmund, who seemed to feel no embarrassment in the intercourse. Adrienne certainly possessed in a high degree the art of putting people at their ease in her company. Mary and Edmund were not usually communicative in first interviews with strangers; but this stranger appeared to take their hearts by storm, and quickly succeeded in making them forget that there was any difference in station between them. She apologised for her intrusion much more particularly than she would have done to a woman whose servant had opened the door, taken her card, and announced her with a flourish. This demeanour was not put on--it was her natural, spontaneous manner, springing from instinctive politeness and geniality of nature. Everything about her was true and pure--what Myles was accustomed to call in the vernacular ‘jannock.’ Mary, also, was nothing if not jannock; and the two girls--the lady and the factory-worker--seemed instinctively to get on. ‘I must not detain you any longer now,’ said Adrienne, at last. ‘I see you are going to have your tea. But I should like to know you. Would you mind if I came again, now and then?’ ‘Eh, I’st be vary glad,’ said Mary, ‘if so be we’re not too simple and plain like for you. Yo’ seen we’re nobbut working folk ...’ ‘Well, I am a working person too, and like seeks like,’ said Adrienne. ‘I reckon you’re a different mak’ o’ worker fro’ us,’ said Mary. ‘I am sure I work as hard as you at least, and am as tired and as glad of rest as you, when my work is done.’ ‘You look tired now,’ said Mary, fixing her large, clear eyes upon Adrienne’s pale and somewhat weary face, from which the glow had faded. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Up at Stonegate, in Blake Street.’