look such a little toff. As true as I sit 'ere I'd 'ave passed 'im by if 'e 'adn't rose 'is 'at to me."
A shock ran through Ada's solid form as she sat on the kitchen chair. The scullery reeled with her. Her bosom was a battle place for jealousy, disbelief, credulity, yet her tone was only surly, as she said:
"You don't seem to go in much for good clothes yourself." Her eyes travelled scornfully over May's felt slippers, her crumpled serge dress, and soiled apron.
May rocked harder than ever. "Ow, clothes don't matter to me in this 'ole. Besides I'm stony broke, 'aven't the price of a 'airnet. But just you wait till I come inter my fortune when I'm of age! Oh, you'll see some dressin' then, if yer 'appen to be in Mayfair!"
"Of age!" cried Ada. "I thought you was thirty if you was a day."
"Just tike ten years off that, Adar. I 'ope to be back in London for my comin' of age party in November. I must not forget ter send you and Cousin Albert an invite."
Ada could not guess the fine sweep of May's designs, but she became almost humble before this magnificence.
"You must come and call on me," she said. "Not tomorrow, because I'm goin' to my aunt's funeral in Milford. I'll be staying the night. But come the next day, and I'll show you my china cabinet and we can run the phonograph. It's likely my aunt'll be leavin' me something pretty nice. I'm her favour-ite niece."
Mrs. Bye came out carrying a tray, set with a pot of tea, four cups and a plate of hot buttered scones.
"I thought you and your friend would be ready for a cup of tea, May. Will you mind if my husband has a cup with us? He always seems to get a little faint about this hour and the sup and bite revive him."
