"What do you expect to do in the end?" I asked them. "You know you're growing older every day."
"Work'ouse," said he.
"Gawd blimey if I do," said she. "There's no 'ope for me, I know, but I'll die on the streets. No work'ouse for me, thank you."
"No, indeed," she sniffed in the silence that fell.
"After you have been out all night in the streets," I asked, "what do you do in the morning for something to eat?"
"Try to get a penny, if you 'aven't one saved over," the man explained. "Then go to a coffee-'ouse an get a mug o' tea."
"But I don't see how that is to feed you," I objected.
The pair smiled knowingly.
"You drink your tea in little sips," he went on, "making it last its longest. An' you look sharp, an' there's some as leaves a bit be'ind 'em."
"It's s'prisin', the food wot some people leaves," the woman broke in.
"The thing," said the man judicially, as the trick dawned upon me," is to get old o' the penny."
As we started to leave, Miss Haythorne gathered up a couple of crusts from the neighboring tables and thrust them somewhere into her rags.
"Cawn't wyste 'em, you know," said she, to which
