“Oh, thank you, sir.”
“Good heavens, don’t take it as a promise,” said Avril, waving her out of the door. “If you want to make sure on that count, confess all to William and do penance by nagging cheerfully borne. But, Mary, don’t do it again. Silly old women like you encourage wicked old women like Lucy Cash.”
“Twenty-five per cent, per week,” said Picot as the door closed. “That’s coming it a bit, even in her business. It is her business, I suppose, sir?”
Avril did not reply immediately. His hands were folded behind his back and he raised his sensitive chin in the air. His eyes were half closed.
“For nearly thirty years I’ve seen Lucy Cash trotting about these streets,” he began at last. “As the houses have grown shabbier she has grown sleeker. Yet she has always been the same, like
