“Have you had a pleasant day shopping, my dear?” It was the lavender silk with the hard mouth actually breaking in a smile.  It was the “my dear” that struck Eleanor’s ear as odd.  The manner said plainly as words could say “You weren’t before; but you are now.”

“Oh, it was rather hot,” answered Eleanor quietly.

“Y’re on the wrong soide.  Y’re in the sun.  If y’ll sit over b’side off me, my dear gurl—­”

Eleanor nearly exploded.  ‘Girl’ was the limit:  ‘lady’ would have been worse; ‘woman’ was good enough for her; but, ‘gurl.’  It was the manner, the proprietary manner, you are one of us now:  what had happened?  She did not answer.  She raised her eye lashes and looked the speaker over from the undertaker’s plumes and the gold teeth and the ash colored V of skin to the clock-work stockings and high heeled slippers.  Then, the stage was stopping violently and her father appeared on the rear steps at the door.  She had never seen him look so.  His eyes were blazing.  It was not until afterwards she remembered how the lavender silks had crushed the evening paper all up and sat upon it.

“There is a little girl up on the seat with the driver.  You’ll find it pleasanter there going up the Valley.”

She remembered afterwards, while her father gave her a hand up the front wheel, a voice inside the stage exclaimed:  “Say, thought they wuz goin’ to be fireworks.  If Dan’d read that in th’ paper ’bout me, he’d a gone on awful.”

“Oh, no, he’s a thoroughbred all right, if it is part Indian.”

Then her father and Williams had gone down inside the stage; and she was left with the driver and a diminutive little bit of humanity, that looked as if it had escaped from one of the rag shops of Shanty Town.  She wore a tawdry thing on her head with bright carmine ostrich plumes that had lost their curl in the rain.  A red plush cape was round her shoulders; and Eleanor could hardly believe her eyes—­she had not seen them since she went through the East End of London—­they were copper toed boots.

“M’ name is Meestress Leezie O’Finnigan.  What’s y’rs?” demanded the little old face.

Eleanor didn’t answer.  She was trying to think what had changed the driver’s friendly manner.  He had neither greeted her nor proffered the reins.  And now, oh, philosopher of the human heart, for each of us is a philosopher inside, answer me:  why did the driver, who was a bit of a hero, and the lavender silk, who was an adventuress, and the gold teeth, who was a slattern, neither pure nor simple, why did each and all eagerly believe the evil, so vague it had not been stated, written by an unknown blackmailer, in the face of the reputation of purity sitting beside them?

“M’ father uz down inside,” continued the child.  “He’s sleep.  We’re goin’ t’ live on th’ Ridge.  D’ y’ know what a Ridge iz?  We’re goin’ t’ be waal-thy—­m’ father says so.  He says we won’t have a thing t’ do but sit toight an’ whuttle un’ sput, un’ whuttle un’ sput fur three years, then the com’ny wull huv t’ pay us what he asks.  He says they think they’ll pay him off fur three hun’red; but he says he knows, he does; un’ he’s goin’ t’ hold ’em up fur half.  Unless they give him half he’ll tell—­”