She was on her way home from the soup-kitchen, where certain
occupations had kept her much later than usual; this, however, was
far out of her way, and Sidney remarked on the fact, perversely,
when she had offered this explanation of her meeting him, Jane did
not reply. They walked on together, towards Islington.
'Are you going to help at that place all the winter?' he inquired.
'Yes; I think so.'
If he had spoken his thought, he would have railed against the
soup-kitchen and all that was connected with it. So far had he got
in his revolt against circumstances; Jane's 'mission' was hateful to
him; he could not bear to think of her handing soup over a counter
to ragged wretches.
'You're nothing like as cheerful as you used to be, he said,
suddenly, and all but roughly. 'Why is it?'
What a question! Jane reddened as she tried to look at him with a
smile; no words would come to her tongue.
'Do you go anywhere else, besides to--to that place?'
Not often. She had accompanied Miss Lant on a visit to some people
in Shooter's Gardens.
Sidney bent his brows. A nice spot, Shooter's Gardens.
'The houses are going to be pulled down, I'm glad to say,' continued
Jane.
Pages:
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508