"I knew it!" gasped the Atom, and fled into the house before him. From a far corner she presently accosted her hostess. "Is that a silk _blouse_ you’re wearin’, Mrs. Barclay?" "Yes, my dear." "Did you give more than threepence for it?" "Sheila Pat!" stammered Molly. "A little!" Mrs. Barclay’s fair little faded face was vividly amused. "I’m glad you did," with grave approval. "But Sarah’s mother only gets threepence for the ones she makes, and she’s always ailin’, with a large fam’ly of babies and her husband dead and three more dead between Sarah and the next one." "Who is Sarah?" "She’s just the little maid at Aunt Kezia’s. She’s a real good worker—for a Londoner, of course, I’m meanin’!" "And her mother makes blouses?" "Yes, and only threepence for them, but perhaps they wouldn’t be silk." "No, they wouldn’t be silk, but it is shocking to hear how badly they pay for such work." "Is it at sales?" Nell queried, looking very wise. Mrs. Barclay smiled. "Oh, no, my dear. The big shops and wholesale places buy hundreds of blouses that they sell off cheap, and that is what they pay for the making of them. What is that noise?" she broke off. "It’s rats!" opined Stewart, shyly. But it was Kate Kearney scratching at the door. When she was let in she came, wriggling and wagging, lifting great pathetic eyes to the faces of her own people. "You bad little K.K.," laughed Nell. "What door did you get in at, I wonder?" Kate Kearney trotted sedately over to the Atom’s corner, and Stewart followed her with a piece of cake. "Mind she doesn’t bite!" jeered the Atom, rudely. He flushed, but did not answer. He gave K.K. two pieces of cake, then turned politely to Sheila Pat:— "Would you like to give her some?" He held out the cake. His politeness—to her a sure and distasteful sign of goodyness—riled the stormy Atom past bearing. "Is it _afraid_ you are?" she cried scornfully. He raised his arm with a sudden fierce gesture and flung the cake straight into her face. It bounced off her small nose and lit with a thud on a chair. In silence they glared at each other for a minute; then he turned to Kate Kearney, thrust his hand right into her protesting mouth, and walked off. Sheila Pat sat trembling on her chair. Twice that afternoon she had been insulted, and by the goody-goo! During the leave-takings Sheila Pat and Stewart coldly ignored each other’s existence. In the hall at No. 35 wrath awaited them in the shape of Miss Kezia, who had just returned home from some shopping. She faced them dramatically, her tall, thin figure drawn to its full height. "You mean to tell me that you left _my_ house, and made an afternoon call on a friend of _mine_—like _that_?" she cried, pointing a long and disapproving forefinger at her nieces. Molly clapped terrified hands to her waist. Through Nell’s mind there darted two lines of one of Denis’s nonsense verses:—