KIPPS
him across it, with that same look between speculative curiosity and appreciation that he remembered from the last of the art class meetings.
"I wondered whether you would call or whether you wouldn't before you left Folkestone."
"I'm not leaving Folkestone for a bit, and any'ow, I should have called on you."
"Mother will be sorry she was out. I've told her about you, and she wants, I know, to meet you."
"I saw 'er—if that was 'er—in the shop," said Kipps.
"Yes—you did, didn't you!. . . She has gone out to make some duty calls, and I didn't go. I had something to write. I write a little, you know."
"Reely!" said Kipps.
"It's nothing much," she said, "and it comes to nothing." She glanced at a little desk near the window, on which there lay some paper. "One must do something." She broke off abruptly. "Have you seen our outlook?" she asked, and walked to the window, and Kipps came and stood beside her. "We look on the Square. It might be worse, you know. That outporter's truck there is horrid—and the railings, but it's better than staring one's social replica in the face, isn't it? It's pleasant in early spring—bright green laid on with a dry brush—and it's pleasant in autumn."
"I like it," said Kipps. "That laylock there is pretty, isn't it?"
"Children come and pick it at times," she remarked.
"I dessay they do," said Kipps.
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