“Can’t we take you home?” said Anthea; and Jane added, “Where does your mother live?”
“She don’t live nowheres—she’s dead—so now!” said the little girl fiercely, in tones of miserable triumph. Then she opened her swollen eyes widely, stamped her foot in fury, and ran away. She ran no further than to the next bench, flung herself down there and began to cry without even trying not to.
Anthea, quite at once, went to the little girl and put her arms as tight as she could round the hunched-up black figure.
“Oh, don’t cry so, dear, don’t, don’t!” she whispered under the brim of the large sailor hat, now very crooked indeed. “Tell Anthea all about it; Anthea’lll help you. There, there, dear, don’t cry.”
The others stood at a distance. One or two passers-by stared curiously.
The child was now only crying part of the time; the rest of the time she seemed to be talking to Anthea.
“It’s horrible!” she said in a furious whisper, “her father was a carpenter and he was a steady man, and never touched a drop except on a Saturday, and he came up to London for work, and there wasn’t any, and then he died; and her name is Imogen, and she’s nine come next November. And now her mother’s dead, and she’s to stay tonight with Mrs Shrobsall—that’s a landlady that’s been kind—and tomorrow the Relieving Officer is coming for her, and she’s going into the Union; that means the Workhouse. It’s too terrible. What can we do?”
“Let’s ask the learned gentleman,” said Jane brightly.
And as no one else could think of anything better the whole party walked back to Fitzroy Street as fast as it could, the little girl holding tight to Anthea’s hand and now not crying any more, only sniffing gently.
The learned gentleman looked up from his writing with the smile that had grown much easier to him than it used to be. They were quite at home in his room now; it really seemed to welcome them. Even the mummy-case appeared to smile as if in its distant superior ancient Egyptian way it were rather pleased to see them than not.
Anthea sat on the stairs with Imogen, who was nine come next November, while the others went in and explained the difficulty.
The learned gentleman listened with grave attention.
“It really does seem rather rough luck,” Cyril concluded, “because I’ve often heard about rich people who wanted children most awfully—though I know _I_ never should—but they do. There must be somebody who’d be glad to have her.”