All Sorts and Conditions of Men: An Impossible Story. Walter Besant

so slowly; and Josephus is sighing over a long pipe; and Mr. Maliphant is chuckling to himself in the corner. On the whole, it is better here. Shall we remain a little longer in the open air, Miss Kennedy?"

      He looked dangerous. Angela, who had been disposed to be expansive, froze.

      "We will have one more turn, if you please, Mr. Goslett." She added stiffly, "Only remember – so long as you don't think of 'keeping company.'"

      "I understand perfectly, Miss Kennedy. 'Society' is a better word than 'company;' let us keep that, and make a new departure for Stepney Green."

      CHAPTER IX.

      THE DAY BEFORE THE FIRST

      Mr. Bunker, en bon chrétien, dissembled his wrath, and continued his good work of furnishing and arranging the house for Angela, insomuch that before many days the place was completely ready for opening.

      In the mean time, Miss Kennedy was away – she went away on business – and Bormalack's was dull without her. Harry found some consolation in superintending some of the work for her house, and in working at a grand cabinet which he designed for her: it was to be a miracle of wood-carving; he would throw into the work all the resources of his art and all his genius. When she came back, after the absence of a week, she looked full of business and of care. Harry thought it must be money worries, and began to curse Bunker's long bill; but she was gracious to him in her queenly way. Moreover, she assured him that all was going on well with her, better than she could have hoped. The evening before the "Stepney Dressmakers' Association" was to open its doors, they all gathered together in the newly furnished house for a final inspection – Angela, her two aids Rebekah and Nelly, and the young man against whose companionship Mr. Bunker had warned her in vain. The house was large, with rooms on either side the door. These were showrooms and workrooms. The first floor Angela reserved for her own purposes, and she was mysterious about them. At the back of the house stretched a long and ample garden. Angela had the whole of it covered with asphalt; the beds of flowers or lawns were all covered over. At the end she had caused to be built a large room of glass, the object of which she had not yet disclosed.

      As regards the appointments of the house, she had taken one precaution – Rebekah superintended them. Mr. Bunker, therefore, was fain to restrict his enthusiasm, and could not charge more than twenty or thirty per cent. above the market value of the things. But Rebekah, though she carried out her instructions, could not but feel disappointed at the lavish scale in which things were ordered and paid for. The show-rooms were as fine as if the place were Regent Street; the workrooms were looked after with as much care for ventilation as if, Mr. Bunker said, work-girls were countesses.

      "It is too good," Rebekah expostulated, "much too good for us. It will only make other girls discontented."

      "I want to make them discontented," Angela replied. "Unless they are discontented, there will be no improvement. Think, Rebekah, what it is that lifts men out of the level of the beasts. We find out that there are better things, and we are fighting our way upward. That is the mystery of discontent – and perhaps pain, as well."

      "Ah!" Rebekah saw that this was not a practical answer. "But you don't know yet the competition of the East End, and the straits we are put to. It is not as at the West End."

      The golden West is ever the Land of Promise. No need to undeceive; let her go on in the belief that the three thousand girls who wait and work about Regent Street and the great shops are everywhere treated generously, and paid above the market-value of their services. I make no doubt, myself, that many a great mercer sits down, when Christmas warms his heart, in his mansion at Finchley, Campden Hill, Fitz John's Avenue, or Stoke Newington, and writes great checks as gifts to the uncomplaining girls who build up his income.

      "She would learn soon," said Rebekah, hoping that the money would last out till the ship was fairly launched.

      She was not suspicious, but there was something "funny," as Nelly said, in a girl of Miss Kennedy's stamp coming among them. Why did she choose Stepney Green? Surely, Bond Street or Regent Street would be better fitted for a lady of her manners. How would customers be received and orders be taken? By herself, or by this young lady, who would certainly treat the ladies of Stepney with little of that deferential courtesy which they expected of these dressmakers? For, as you may have remarked, the lower you descend, as well as the higher you climb, the more deference do the ladies receive at the hands of their trades-folk. No duchess sweeps into a milliner's showroom with more dignity than her humble sister at Clare Market on a Saturday evening displays when she accepts the invitation of the butcher to "Rally up, ladies," and selects her Sunday piece of beef. The ladies of Stepney and the Mile End Road, thought Rebekah, looked for attentions. Would Miss Kennedy give it to them? If Miss Kennedy herself did not attend to the showroom, what would she do?

      On this evening, after they had walked over the whole house, visited the asphalted garden, and looked into the great glass-room, Angela unfolded her plans.

      It was in the workroom. She stood at the head of the table, looking about her with an air of pride and anxiety. It was her own design – her own scheme; small as it was, compared with that other vast project, she was anxious about it. It had to succeed; it must succeed.

      All its success, she thought, depended upon that sturdy little fanatical seventh-day young person. It was she who was to rule the place and be the practical dressmaker. And now she was to be told.

      "Now," said Angela, with some hesitation, "the time has come for an explanation of the way we shall work. First of all, will you, Rebekah, undertake the management and control of the business?"

      "I, Miss Kennedy? But what is your department?"

      "I will undertake the management of the girls" – she stopped and blushed – "out of their work-time."

      At this extraordinary announcement the two girls looked blankly at their employer.

      "You do not quite understand," Angela went on. "Wait a little. Do you consent, Rebekah?"

      The girl's eyes flashed and her cheeks became aflame. Then she thought of the sudden promotion of Joseph, and she took confidence. Perhaps she really was equal to the place; perhaps she had actually merited the distinction.

      "Very well, then," Miss Kennedy went on, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that a humble workwoman should be suddenly raised to the proud post of manager. "Very well; that is settled. You, Nelly, will try to take care of the workroom when Rebekah is not there. As regards the accounts – "

      "I can keep them, too," said Rebekah. "I shall work – on Sundays," she added with a blush.

      Miss Kennedy then proceeded to expound her views as regards the management of her establishment.

      "The girls will be here at nine," she said.

      Rebekah nodded. There could be no objection to that.

      "They will work from nine till eleven," Rebekah started. "Yes, I know what I mean. The long hours of sitting and bending the back over the work are just as bad a thing for girls of fifteen or so as could be invented. At eleven, therefore, we shall have, all of us, half an hour's exercise."

      Exercise? Exercise in a dressmaker's shop? Was Miss Kennedy in her senses?

      "You see that asphalt. Surely some of you can guess what it is for?" She looked at Harry.

      "Skittles?" he suggested frivolously.

      "No. Lawn tennis. Well! why not?"

      "What is lawn tennis?" asked Nelly.

      "A game, my dear; and you shall learn it."

      "I never play games," said Rebekah. "A serious person has no room in her life for games."

      "Then call it exercise, and you will be able to play it without wounding your conscience." This was Harry's remark. "Why not, indeed, Miss Kennedy? The game of lawn tennis, Nelly," he went on to explain, "is greatly in vogue among the bloated aristocracy, as my cousin Dick will tell you. That it should descend to you and me and the likes of us is nothing less than a social revolution."

      Nelly smiled, but she only half understood this kind of language. A man who laughed at things,