“A lot _she’ll_ want with currant cake!” Emma returned sardonically, but Mrs. Clapham took no notice. “Nay, it’s open right enough,” she said, as the door yielded. “I’ll just slip in and pop it on t’ table.... I’d nowt else I could bring,” she added, looking back for a moment with a second laugh. “I’ve been that sure I was going off I couldn’t bother about food!” Pushing the door gently, she advanced into the kitchen as quietly as her weight would allow, though, from the look of Martha Jane, it seemed hardly likely that even an air-raid would have power to stir her. Just so, she thought to herself, had Mrs. James slipped into her own cottage with her gift of soup, to find her sleeping the little cat-sleep that had come on her unawares. The comparison brought a return of her morning indignation, as she stood looking down at the snoring woman and round the dirty, neglected room. It was certainly a troublesome flaw in her beautiful day that Martha Jane should continue to parody her all through. But before long her indignation passed into a troubled wonder as to her own duty. Perhaps she and Emma between them ought to try to get Martha Jane to bed, or at least to dispose her gracefully on the sofa. She did not like to think of her sitting there to be gaped at by the passers-by; and, even as an object-lesson, she was scarcely a suitable sight for the children returning to school. She felt pretty sure, however, that Emma would refuse to touch her, nor did she feel over-inclined to touch her herself. In the end, therefore, she compromised by drawing the blind on its crazy roller, and, whipping the cloth from under the loaf, cast a last look at the sublimely indifferent figure and went out again into the street. Emma was still there, she found, still puzzling her with that air of interested focus upon herself. “What was that you said just now about going off?” she inquired, almost before Mrs. Clapham was well outside. She spoke tranquilly enough, though her hands twitched under her elbows as if demanding to be released. “Going off?” The charwoman looked puzzled, and then swung round again to the door.... “Eh, now, if yon smell o’ drink hasn’t fair followed me into t’ road!” “You said you’d been that full of going off you’d done no cooking or owt,” Emma reminded her stolidly, ignoring her comment. Her eyes, fixed on the other’s face, seemed to be willing her not to look at her hands.... “I didn’t rightly know what it was you meant.” Mrs. Clapham gave the same half-ashamed laugh. “I only meant I was that throng with plans and suchlike about the new house! Not that I _did_ owt, you’ll understand, such as packing an’ all that. I was only thinking about it and turning it over in my mind.” A large sigh seemed to make a stupendous struggle and emerge diminished through Emma’s lips.