London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
“Well, you’ll have to guess my name before I’ll tell you,” the girl
said, with a free laugh, pushing her way into the narrow hall and
leaning against the tattered wall-paper, which, representing blocks of
marble with bevelled edges, in streaks and speckles of black and gray,
had not been renewed for years and came back to her out of the past. As
Miss Pynsent closed the door, seeing her visitor was so resolute, the
light filtered in from the street, through the narrow, dusty glass
above it, and then the very smell and sense of the place returned to
Millicent; a kind of musty dimness, with the vision of a small, steep
staircase at the end, covered with a strip of oilcloth which she
recognised, and made a little less dark by a window in the bend (you
could see it from the hall), from which you could almost bump your head
against the house behind. Nothing was changed except Miss Pynsent, and
of course the girl herself. She had noticed, outside, that the sign
between the windows had not even been touched up; there was still the
same preposterous announcement of ‘fashionable bonnets’—as if the poor
little dressmaker had the slightest acquaintance with that style of
head-dress, of which Miss Henning’s own knowledge was now so complete.
She could see Miss Pynsent was looking at her hat, which was a
wonderful composition of flowers and ribbons; her eyes had travelled up
and down Millicent’s whole person, but they rested in fascination upon
this ornament. The girl had forgotten how small the dressmaker was; she
barely came up to her shoulder. She had lost her hair, and wore a cap,
which Millicent noticed in return, wondering if that were a specimen of
what she thought the fashion. Miss Pynsent stared up at her as if she
had been six feet high; but she was used to that sort of surprised
admiration, being perfectly conscious that she was a magnificent young
woman.
“Won’t you take me into your shop?” she asked. “I don’t want to order
anything; I only want to inquire after your ’ealth; and isn’t this
rather an awkward place to talk?” She made her way further in, without
waiting for permission, seeing that her startled hostess had not yet
guessed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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