Morel found the photograph standing on the chiffonier in the parlour. He came out with it between his thick thumb and finger.
“Who dost reckon this is?” he asked of his wife.
“It’s the girl our William is going with,” replied Mrs. Morel.
“H’m! ’Er’s a bright spark, from th’ look on ’er, an’ one as wunna do him owermuch good neither. Who is she?”
“Her name is Louisa Lily Denys Western.”
“An’ come again to-morrer!” exclaimed the miner. “An’ is ’er an actress?”
“She is not. She’s supposed to be a lady.”
“I’ll bet!” he exclaimed, still staring at the photo. “A lady, is she? An’ how much does she reckon ter keep up this sort o’ game on?”
“On nothing. She lives with an old aunt, whom she hates, and takes what bit of money’s given her.”
“H’m!” said Morel, laying down the photograph. “The
