MORNING SERIAL

HE glanced at the girl by his side. He noticed how clean she was, how neat. Her trim figure.

Surely she did not live in that bleak, poverty-ridden area? The way she smiled at him. She seemed happy, well cared for.

But as they came into the brighter light of the High Street he saw that, in spite of her neat appearance, her clothes were cheap. Her costume was well worn, the cloth at, the wrists threadbare. Now he had a better opportunity to judge her.

As she turned her face to speak to him he was startled by the pallor of her complexion. She was very beautiful. Her eyes were large and expressive, yet there was a lack of lustre in them, as though she were tired or strained.

He felt a sudden surge of pity for her. He tried to think of something to say, but could not. “You’re very quiet?” “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I—I was just thinking.”

She coughed, a hollowthroated cough, and clutched his arm.

“Gee, that’s a bad cough.” Ieuan had found a subject for conversation. “Sounds as if you’ve got a cold.”

“It’s nothing really,” she said. “Just a frog in the throat.”

“It’s an awfully big frog,” he said, glad that he had found his tongue again. “But, seriously though, you ought to see the doctor. Have you been to him?” “No.” “Well, you ought to, you know.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, I tell you. I’ve always had a cough, ever since I can remember. Maybe it’s the house, mam is always complaining about the dampness.”

“Yes, Crooked Row is a very unhealthy spot. The council should have pulled the houses down years ago. There’s no sense in people having to live in them.”

“It’s an awful place,” she said. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of telling people that I live there.”