“You see, dear,” she said, “it wouldn’t be very difficult to put in your name along with mine, and then we might get a job together. Hackney wouldn’t be any use, and you’re not smart enough for the West End, but we ought to get something round about Islington, what do you say?”

I could only thank her, which I did with increasing humility. There was I, a complete stranger to this young thing, and yet, because she felt I was down and out, she was ready to risk committing an offence against the law. The law⁠—I could imagine what the Madonna of the club foot would have said:⁠—

“Why, what difference does it make?”

Most of the girls were quite communicative. The majority, as I have said, were domestic servants. The older women had different histories. There was Millie, the mental case, who lived permanently in Mare Street, while some half-a-dozen others of similar age were waiting to be moved on.