Nothing was too
absurd, no tiny record too trivial to be precious in the mother's ears.
A source of furtive interest to her were the movements of Willy Spratt,
the cutler's son. Instructed thereto by his parents, who may have thought
that the sight of him would be painful to the poor woman, the child gave
up, going to the shop to spend his pennies. Looking in, a little wistfully
at first, as he passed, he soon ran, singing or shouting, by the door,
with no thought of the little companion who used to wait to join him
there. When at length he took to coming in again for his screw of sweets,
Mrs. Day would look away from him resentfully, leaving him to Mr. Pretty
to serve. She could not bring herself to speak to the child who was alive
and well, and happy with his acid-drops, while Franky lay in his grave.
Of the company of Mr. Boult at that time the Days had more than enough.
Mr. Gibbon used to get up and retire to his room or go out to walk the
streets, when the head of his firm appeared. "I have enough of him in
working hours," he would excuse himself afterwards. "Mr. Boult is all very
well in his place."
"I'm sure I wish he would keep there!" Bessie would declare. She thought
the Honourable Charles was jealous; for with the elder daughter the draper
had come to indulge in a kind of heavy badinage which may have gratified
George Boult, and apparently was not displeasing to Bessie, but which
those who looked on must have found fatiguing.
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