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She was still a child – if a rather precocious one – and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings too badly. ‘I thought it was rather . . . well . . . florid, I suppose.’
    Her eyes sharpened. ‘I haven’t come across that word before. Is that good or bad?’
    â€˜It means it’s overwritten. That’s not good.’
    A tiny exasperated sound left her mouth. ‘Now who’s being florid? If it’s not good then it must be bad . . . how bad is it?’
    He gave her what she didn’t really need to hear. ‘It was terrible.’
    Now he’d offered her the bald truth, he wished he hadn’t. She looked crushed by the observation. But then she rallied and spoke in defence of her composition. ‘The audience liked it, and you must remember it wasn’t written with a learned gentleman like yourself in mind.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m not saying that the poem didn’t have its good points. It did. The rhythm of it was . . . unusual , but it worked as you recited the piece, which you put across well. Most of your audience could connect with the emotional content because poverty is something they all know about. You also know how to work a crowd.’
    She nodded. ‘Before my sister arrived, my mother and I toured with a theatre company. After that she became a housekeeper. I was only young then, but I learned a lot. So what was so terrible about the poem?’
    Now she’d put him on the spot again, not with any thought of embarrassing him, but because she seemed to have a genuine need to know. ‘The second verse was rather vulgar for a girl of your age, I thought,’ he ventured. ‘What do you know of men’s appetites and opium dens?’
    â€˜I’ve been to Limehouse, haven’t I? Besides, that poem earned me two shillings today. And it will earn me two shillings tomorrow and another two the day after, and for the rest of the week. That’s ten shillings, which is better than one shilling and four pence from a publisher or a shilling for . . .’ She bit her tongue, mumbling red-faced, ‘Well, you know . . . at least . . . that’s what I’m told it costs.’
    Hiding his shock, Thomas stopped to buy them a bowl of pea and ham soup and a thick chunk of bread to soak it up with. He carried his own mug and spoon with him, but Celia drank hers from the wooden bowl. When it was empty her tongue came out and lashed around the bowl as far down as she could stretch it, licking up the residue. She fished out the leftover shreds of ham with her fingertip. She sighed and smiled at the stallholder when she handed the bowl back. ‘That was good.’
    Thomas wondered how many people had drunk from the bowl, and shuddered.
    When they resumed walking, she said, ‘I’m sorry I entered your house without your permission. I liked your cat.’
    â€˜Frederick is a good companion.’
    â€˜Do you understand him when he talks back to you?’
    â€˜In a way. Humans and animals communicate in the only method they can. Usually Frederick’s demands are small. He’s hungry, or he wants to go out into the garden, or to sit on my lap and have a fuss made of him. Sometimes he just wants to be amused and sometimes he’s a dreadful show-off and keeps me amused.’
    A smile touched her mouth.
    He remembered the gift he’d bought her. Taking it out of his satchel he held it out to her. ‘Here, this is for you.’
    She undid the knot in the string holding the brown paper in place and gazed unsmilingly down at the book, then at him. ‘ Robinson Crusoe ? This is the one from the shop window. Why are you giving me this?’
    â€˜Because it’s a book you wanted to read.’
    â€˜And what do you want in return?’ She then moved on to display that she did have some knowledge of men’s appetites, pushing the book back at him. ‘The same as all men, I suppose. Well, I’m