XXV
BUT WHEN the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn, pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well lately, and that she did not like to leave her.
 It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of July, when the sky seems as if it could not darken. The roadway was very still in its dust and heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a poor horse striving to pull a four-wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that had just been laid down. So absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animal that she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man coming towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of light grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short for him. He walked with long, even strides, a small cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket; a heavy gold chain showed across his waistcoat. He wore a round hat and a red necktie. The side whiskers and the shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a gentleman’s valet. He did not notice Esther, but a sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought her nearly into collision with him.
 “Do look where you are going to,” he exclaimed, jumping back to avoid the beer-jug, which fell to the ground. “What, Esther, is it you?”
 “There, you have made me drop the beer.”
 “Plenty more in the public; I’ll get you another jug.”
 “It is very kind of you. I can get what I want myself.”
 They looked at each other, and at the end of a long silence William said: “Just fancy meeting you, and in this way! Well I never! I am glad to see you again.”
 “Are you really! Well, so much for that — your way and mine aren’t the same. I wish you good evening.”
 “Stop a moment, Esther.”
 “And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I’ve to go and get some more beer.”
 “Shall I wait for you?”
 “Wait for me! I should think not, indeed.”
 Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused as it was about to lift the jug down from the dresser, and a number of thoughts fled across her mind. That man would be waiting for her outside. What was she to do? How unfortunate! If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sure to meet.
 “What are you waiting for, I should like to know?” she cried, as she came up the steps.
 “That’s ’ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too; one would think —”
 “I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. Do you ’ear? I want no truck with you whatever. Haven’t you done me enough mischief already?”
 “Be quiet; listen to me. I’ll explain.”
 “I don’t want none of your explanation. Go away.”
 Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick with passionate remembrance of the injustice that had been done her, she drew back from him, her eyes flashing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of the breakage of the first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him with the second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of venting itself in violent action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He followed her up the street, and into the bar. She handed the jug across the counter, and while the barman filled it searched in her pocket for the money. She had brought none with her. William promptly produced sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick, angry glance, and addressing the barman, she said, “I’ll pay you to-morrow; that’ll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale Road.”
 “That will be all right, but what am I to do with this sixpence?”
 “I know nothing about that,” Esther said, picking up her skirt; “I’ll pay you for what I have had.”
 Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet fingers, the barman looked at William. William smiled, and said, “Well, they do run sulky sometimes.”
 He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door open for her, and as she passed out she became aware that William still admired her. It was really too bad, and she was conscious of injustice. Having destroyed her life, this man had passed out of sight and knowledge, but only to reappear when a vista leading to a new life seemed open before her.
 “It was that temper of yours that did it; you wouldn’t speak to me for a fortnight. You haven’t changed, I can see that,” he said, watching Esther’s face, which did not alter until he spoke of how unhappy he had been in his marriage. “A regular brute she was — we’re no longer together, you know; haven’t been for the last three years; could not put up with ’er. She was that — but that’s a long story.” Esther did not answer him. He looked at her anxiously, and seeing that she would not be won over easily, he spoke of his money.
 “Look ’ere, Esther,” he said, laying his hand on the area gate. “You won’t refuse to come out with me some Sunday. I’ve a half a share in a public-house, the ‘King’s Head,’ and have been backing winners all this year. I’ve plenty of money to treat you. I should like to make it up to you. Perhaps you’ve ’ad rather a ’ard time. What ’ave yer been doing all these years? I want to hear.”
 “What ’ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your child! That’s what I’ve been doing.”
 “There’s a child, then, is there?” said William, taken aback. Before he could recover himself Esther had slipped past him down the area into the house. For a moment he looked as if he were going to follow her; on second thoughts he thought he had better not. He lingered a moment and then walked slowly away in the direction of the Metropolitan Railway.
 “I’m sorry to ’ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met with an accident and had to come back for another jug.”
 “And what was the accident you met with, Esther?”
 “I wasn’t paying no attention, miss; I was looking at a cab that could hardly get through the stones they’ve been laying down in the Pembroke Road; the poor little horse was pulling that ’ard that I thought he’d drop down dead, and while I was looking I ran up against a passer-by, and being a bit taken aback I dropped the jug.”
 “How was that? Did you know the passer-by?”
 Esther busied herself with the dishes on the sideboard; and, divining that something serious had happened to her servant, Miss Rice refrained and allowed the dinner to pass in silence. Half-an-hour later Esther came into the study with her mistress’s tea. She brought over the wicker table, and as she set it by her mistress’s knees the shadows about the bookcase and the light of the lamp upon the book and the pensive content on Miss Rice’s face impelled her to think of her own troubles, the hardship, the passion, the despair of her life compared with this tranquil existence. Never had she felt more certain that misfortune was inherent in her life. She remembered all the trouble she had had, she wondered how she had come out of it all alive; and now, just as things seemed like settling, everything was going to be upset again. Fred was away for a fortnight’s holiday — she was safe for eleven or twelve days. After that she did not know what might not happen. Her instinct told her that although he had passed over her fault very lightly, so long as he knew nothing of the father of her child, he might not care to marry her if William continued to come after her. Ah! if she hadn’t happened to go out at that particular time she might never have met William. He did not live in the neighbourhood; if he did they would have met before. Perhaps he had just settled in the neighbourhood. That would be worst of all. No, no, no; it was a mere accident; if the cask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if it had run out a day or two sooner, she might never have met William! But now she could not keep out of his way. He spent the whole day in the street waiting for her. If she went out on an errand he followed her there and back. If she’d only listen. She was prettier than ever. He had never cared for any one else. He would marry her when he got his divorce, and then the child would be theirs. She did not answer him, but her blood boiled at the word “theirs.” How could Jackie become their child? Was it not she who had worked for him, brought him up? and she thought as little of his paternity as if he had fallen from heaven into her arms.
 One evening as she was laying the table her grief took her unawares, and she was obliged to dash aside the tears that had risen to her eyes. The action was so apparent that Miss Rice thought it would be an affectation to ignore it. So she said in her kind, musical, intimate manner, “Esther, I’m afraid you have some trouble on your mind; can I do anything for you?”
 “No, miss, no, it’s nothing; I shall get over it presently.”
 But the effort of speaking was too much for her, and a bitter sob caught her in the throat.
 “You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even if I cannot help you it will ease your heart to tell me about it. I hope nothing is the matter with Jackie?”
 “No, miss, no; thank God, he’s well enough. It’s nothing to do with him; leastways —” Then with a violent effort she put back her tears. “Oh, it is silly of me,” she said, “and your dinner getting cold.”
 “I don’t want to pry into your affairs, Esther, but you know that —”
 “Yes, miss, I know you to be kindness itself; but there’s nothing to be done but to bear it. You asked me just now if it had anything to do with Jackie. Well, it is no more than that his father has come back.”
 “But surely, Esther, that’s hardly a reason for sorrow; I should have thought that you would have been glad.”
 “It is only natural that you should think so, miss; them what hasn’t been through the trouble never thinks the same as them that has. You see, miss, it is nearly nine years since I’ve seen him, and during them nine years I ’ave been through so much. I ’ave worked and slaved, and been through all the ’ardship, and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants me to marry him when he gets his divorce.”
 “Then you like some one else better?”
 “Yes, miss, I do, and what makes it so ’ard to bear is that for the last two months or more I’ve been keeping company with Fred Parsons — that’s the stationer’s assistant; you’ve seen him in the shop, miss — and he and me is engaged to be married. He’s earning good money, thirty shillings a week; he’s as good a young man as ever stepped — religious, kind-hearted, everything as would make a woman ’appy in ’er ’ome. It is ’ard for a girl to keep up with ’er religion in some of the situations we have to put up with, and I’d mostly got out of the habit of chapel-going till I met him; it was ’e who led me back again to Christ. But for all that, understanding very well, not to say indulgent for the failings of others, like yourself, miss. He knew all about Jackie from the first, and never said nothing about it, but that I must have suffered cruel, which I have. He’s been with me to see Jackie, and they both took to each other wonderful like; it couldn’t ’ave been more so if ’e’d been ’is own father. But now all that’s broke up, for when Fred meets William it is as likely as not as he’ll think quite different.”
 The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and Miss Rice’s strip of garden grew greener. She had finished her dinner, and she leaned back thinking of the story she had heard. She was one of those secluded maiden ladies so common in England, whose experience of life is limited to a tea party, and whose further knowledge of life is derived from the yellow-backed French novels which fill their bookcases.
 “How was it that you happened to meet William — I think you said his name was William?”
 “It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer from the public-house. It was he that made me drop the jug; you remember, miss, I had to come back for another. I told you about it at the time. When I went out again with a fresh jug he was waiting for me, he followed me to the ‘Greyhound’ and wanted to pay for the beer — not likely that I’d let him; I told them to put it on the slate, and that I’d pay for it to-morrow. I didn’t speak to him on leaving the bar, but he followed me to the gate. He wanted to know what I’d been doing all the time. Then my temper got the better of me, and I said, ‘Looking after your child.’ ‘My child!’ says he. ‘So there’s a child, is there?’”
 “I think you told me that he married one of the young ladies at the place you were then in situation?”
 “Young lady! No fear, she wasn’t no young lady. Anyway, she was too good or too bad for him; for they didn’t get on, and are now living separate.”
 “Does he speak about the child? Does he ask to see him?”
 “Lor’, yes, miss; he’d the cheek to say the other day that we’d make him our child — our child, indeed! and after all these years I’ve been working and he doing nothing.”
 “Perhaps he might like to do something for him; perhaps that’s what he’s thinking of.”
 “No, miss, I know him better than that. That’s his cunning; he thinks he’ll get me through the child.”
 “In any case I don’t see what you’ll gain by refusing to speak to him; if you want to do something for the child, you can. You said he was proprietor of a public-house.”
 “I don’t want his money; please God, we’ll be able to do without it to the end.”
 “If I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that you would be in exactly the same position as you were when you entered my service. You remember what that was? You have often told me there was only eighteen-pence between you and the workhouse; you owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks’ money for the support of the child. I daresay you’ve saved a little money since you’ve been with me, but it cannot be more than a few pounds. I don’t think that you ought to let this chance slip through your fingers, if not for your own, for Jackie’s sake. William, according to his own account, is making money. He may become a rich man; he has no children by his wife; he might like to leave some of his money — in any case, he’d like to leave something — to Jackie.”
 “He was always given to boasting about money. I don’t believe all he says about money or anything else.”
 “That may be, but he may have money, and you have no right to refuse to allow him to provide for Jackie. Supposing later on Jackie were to reproach you?”
 “Jackie’d never do that, miss; he’d know I acted for the best.”
 “If you again found yourself out of a situation, and saw Jackie crying for his dinner, you’d reproach yourself.”
 “I don’t think I should, miss.”
 “I know you are very obstinate, Esther. When does Parsons return?”
 “In about a week, miss.”
 “Without telling William anything about Parsons, you’ll be able to find out whether it is his intention to interfere in your life. I quite agree with you that it is important that the two men should not meet; but it seems to me, by refusing to speak to William, by refusing to let him see Jackie, you are doing all you can to bring about the meeting that you wish to avoid. Is he much about here?”
 “Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, and it do look so bad for the ’ouse. I do feel that ashamed. Since I’ve been with you, miss, I don’t think you’ve ’ad to complain of followers.”
 “Well, don’t you see, you foolish girl, that he’ll remain hanging about, and the moment Parsons comes back he’ll hear of it. You’d better see to this at once.”
 “Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, some ’ow. What you says do seem that reasonable, and yet I don’t know how to bring myself to go to ’im. I told ’im that I didn’t want no truck with ’im.”
 “Yes, I think you said so. It is a delicate matter to advise anyone in, but I feel sure I am right when I say that you have no right to refuse to allow him to do something for the child. Jackie is now eight years old, you’ve not the means of giving him a proper education, and you know the disadvantage it has been to you not to know how to read and write.”
 “Jackie can read beautifully — Mrs. Lewis ’as taught him.”
 “Yes, Esther; but there’s much besides reading and writing. Think over what I’ve said; you’re a sensible girl; think it out when you go to bed to-night.”
 Next day, seeing William in the street, she went upstairs to ask Miss Rice’s permission to go out. “Could you spare me, miss, for an hour or so?” was all she said. Miss Rice, who had noticed a man loitering, replied, “Certainly, Esther.”
 “You aren’t afraid to be left in the house alone, miss? I shan’t be far away.”
 “No. I am expecting Mr. Alden. I’ll let him in, and can make the tea myself.”
 Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly down the street, as if she were going on an errand. William crossed the road and was soon alongside of her.
 “Don’t be so ’ard on a chap,” he said. “Just listen to reason.”
 “I don’t want to listen to you; you can’t have much to say that I care for.”
 Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it contained a change of humour.
 “Come for a little walk, and then, if you don’t agree with what I says,
I’ll never come after you again.”
“You must take me for a fool if you think I’d pay attention to your promises.”
 “Esther, hear me out; you’re very unforgiving, but if you’d hear me out —”
 “You can speak; no one’s preventing you that I can see.”
 “I can’t say it off like that; it is a long story. I know that I’ve behaved badly to you, but it wasn’t as much my fault as you think; I could explain a good lot of it.”
 “I don’t care about your explanations. If you’ve only got explanations —”
 “There’s that boy.”
 “Oh, it is the boy you’re thinking of?”
 “Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can’t be separated from the child.”
 “Very likely; the father can, though.”
 “If you talk that snappish I shall never get out what I’ve to say. I’ve treated you badly, and it is to make up for the past as far as I can —”
 “And how do you know that you aren’t doing harm by coming after me?”
 “You mean you’re keeping company with a chap and don’t want me?”
 “You don’t know I’m not a married woman; you don’t know what kind of situation I’m in. You comes after me just because it pleases your fancy, and don’t give it a thought that you mightn’t get me the sack, as you got it me before.”
 “There’s no use nagging; just let’s go where we can have a talk, and then if you aren’t satisfied you can go your way and I can go mine. You said I didn’t know that you wasn’t married. I don’t, but if you aren’t, so much the better. If you are, you’ve only to say so and I’ll take my hook. I’ve done quite enough harm, without coming between you and your husband.”
 William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently from his heart that Esther was touched against her will.
 “No, I ain’t married yet,” she replied.
 “I’m glad of that.”
 “I don’t see what odds it can make to you whether I’m married or not. If I ain’t married, you are.”
 William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless — a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of waste ground, William said —
 “Let’s go in there; we’ll be able to talk easier.” Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked for a place where they could sit down.
 “This is just like old times,” said William, moving a little closer.
 “If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I’ll get up and go. I only came out with you because you said you had something particular to say about the child.”
 “Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son.”
 “How do you know it’s a son?”
 “I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy — is it?”
 “Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very different to his father.
I’ve always told him that his father is dead.”
“And is he sorry?”
 “Not a bit. I’ve told him his father wasn’t good to me; and he don’t care for those who haven’t been good to his mother.”
 “I see, you’ve brought him up to hate me?”
 “He don’t know nothing about you — how should ’e?”
 “Very likely; but there’s no need to be that particular nasty. As I’ve said before, what’s done can’t be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and I’ve been badly treated myself — damned badly treated. You’ve ’ad a ’ard time; so have I, if that’s any comfort to ye.”
 “I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me.”
 William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. He held a long grass stalk between his small, discoloured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked at Esther; she sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spread over the rough grass; her cloth jacket was unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-looking woman and he imagined her behind the bar of the “King’s Head.” His marriage had proved childless and in every way a failure; he now desired a wife such as he felt sure she would be, and his heart hankered sorely after his son. He tried to read Esther’s quiet, subdued face. It was graver than usual, and betrayed none of the passion that choked in her. She must manage that the men should not meet. But how should she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was looking at her, and to lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him where he had gone with his wife when they left Woodview. Breaking off suddenly, he said —
 “Peggy knew all the time I was gone on you.”
 “It don’t matter about that. Tell me where you went — they said you went foreign.”
 “We first went to Boulogne, that’s in France; but nearly everyone speaks English there, and there was a nice billiard room handy, where all the big betting men came in of an evening. We went to the races. I backed three winners on the first day — the second I didn’t do so well. Then we went on to Paris. The race-meetings is very ’andy — I will say that for Paris — half-an-hour’s drive and there you are.”
 “Did your wife like Paris?”
 “Yes, she liked it pretty well — it is all the place for fashion, and the shops is grand; but she got tired of it too, and we went to Italy.”
 “Where’s that?”
 “That’s down south. A beast of a place — nothing but sour wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I got that sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, ’i’ve ’ad enough of this. I want to go home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cut from the joint, and where there’s a horse worth looking at.’”
 “But she was very fond of you. She must have been.”
 “She was, in her way. But she always liked talking to the singers and the painters that we met out there. Nothing wrong, you know. That was after we had been married about three years.”
 “What was that?”
 “That I caught her out.”
 “How do you know there was anything wrong? Men always think bad of women.”
 “No, it was right enough! she had got dead sick of me, and I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem natural like. There was no ’omeliness in it, and a marriage that ain’t ’omely is no marriage for me. Her friends weren’t my friends; and as for my friends, she never left off insulting me about them. If I was to ask a chap in she wouldn’t sit in the same room with him. That’s what it got to at last. And I was always thinking of you, and your name used to come up when we was talking. One day she said, ’i suppose you are sorry you didn’t marry a servant?’ and I said, ’i suppose you are sorry you did?’”
 “That was a good one for her. Did she say she was?”
 “She put her arms round my neck and said she loved none but her big Bill. But all her flummery didn’t take me in. And I says to myself, ‘Keep an eye on her.’ For there was a young fellow hanging about in a manner I didn’t particularly like. He was too anxious to be polite to me, he talked to me about ’orses, and I could see he knew nothing about them. He even went so far as go down to Kempton with me.”
 “And how did it all end?”
 “I determined to keep my eye on this young whipper-snapper, and come up from Ascot by an earlier train than they expected me. I let myself in and ran up to the drawing-room. They were there sitting side by side on the sofa. I could see they were very much upset. The young fellow turned red, and he got up, stammering, and speaking a lot of rot.
 “‘What! you back already? How did you get on at Ascot? Had a good day?’
 “‘Rippin’; but I’m going to have a better one now,’ I said, keeping my eye all the while on my wife. I could see by her face that there was no doubt about it. Then I took him by the throat. ’i just give you two minutes to confess the truth; I know it, but I want to hear it from you. Now, out with it, or I’ll strangle you.’ I gave him a squeeze just to show him that I meant it. He turned up his eyes, and my wife cried, ‘Murder!’ I threw him back from me and got between her and the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. ‘Now,’ I said, ’i’ll drag the truth out of you both.’ He did look white, he shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she — well, she looked as if she could have killed me, only there was nothing to kill me with. I saw her look at the fire-irons. Then, in her nasty sarcastic way, she said, ‘There’s no reason, Percy, why he shouldn’t know. Yes,’ she said, ‘he is my lover; you can get your divorce when you like.’
 “I was a bit taken aback; my idea was to squeeze it all out of the fellow and shame him before her. But she spoilt my little game there, and I could see by her eyes that she knew that she had. ‘Now, Percy,’ she said, ‘we’d better go.’ That put my blood up. I said, ‘Go you shall, but not till I give you leave,’ and without another word I took him by the collar and led him to the door; he came like a lamb, and I sent him off with as fine a kick as he ever got in his life. He went rolling down, and didn’t stop till he got to the bottom. You should have seen her look at me; there was murder in her eyes. If she could she’d have killed me, but she couldn’t and calmed down a bit. ‘Let me go; what do you want me for? You can get a divorce .... I’ll pay the costs.’
 “‘I don’t think I’d gratify you so much. So you’d like to marry him, would you, my beauty?’
 “‘He’s a gentleman, and I’ve had enough of you; if you want money you shall have it.’
 “I laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or more. Then she suddenly calmed down. I knew something was up, only I didn’t know what. I don’t know if I told you we was in lodgings — the usual sort, drawing-room with folding doors, the bedroom at the back. She went into the bedroom, and I followed, just to make sure she couldn’t get out that way. There was a chest of drawers before the door; I thought she couldn’t move it, and went back into the sitting-room. But somehow she managed to move it without my hearing her, and before I could stop her she was down the stairs like lightning. I went after her, but she had too long a start of me, and the last I heard was the street door go bang.”
 The conversation paused. William took the stalk he was chewing from his teeth, and threw it aside. Esther had picked one, and with it she beat impatiently among the grass.
 “But what has all this to do with me?” she said. “If this is all you have brought me out to listen to —”
 “That’s a nice way to round on me. Wasn’t it you what asked me to tell you the story?”
 “So you’ve deserted two women instead of one, that’s about the long and short of it.”
 “Well, if that’s what you think I’d better be off,” said William, and he rose to his feet and stood looking at her. She sat quite still, not daring to raise her eyes; her heart was throbbing violently. Would he go away and never come back? Should she answer him indifferently or say nothing? She chose the latter course. Perhaps it was the wrong one, for her dogged silence irritated him, and he sat down and begged of her to forgive him. He would wait for her. Then her heart ceased throbbing, and a cold numbness came over her hands.
 “My wife thought that I had no money, and could do what she liked with me. But I had been backing winners all the season, and had a couple of thousand in the bank. I put aside a thousand for working expenses, for I intended to give up backing horses and go in for bookmaking instead. I have been at it ever since. A few ups and downs, but I can’t complain. I am worth to-day close on three thousand pounds.”
 At the mention of so much money Esther raised her eyes. She looked at William steadfastly. Her object was to rid herself of him, so that she might marry another man; but at that moment a sensation of the love she had once felt for him sprang upon her suddenly.
 “I must be getting back, my mistress will be waiting for me.”
 “You needn’t be in that hurry. It is quite early. Besides, we haven’t settled nothing yet.”
 “You’ve been telling me about your wife. I don’t see much what it’s got to do with me.”
 “I thought you was interested ... that you wanted to see that I wasn’t as much to blame as you thought.”
 “I must be getting back,” she said; “anything else you have to say to me you can tell me on the way home.”
 “Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a divorce we might come together again. What do you think?”
 “I think you’d much better make it up with her. I daresay she’s very sorry for what she’s done.”
 “That’s all rot, Esther. She ain’t sorry, and wouldn’t live with me no more than I with her. We could not get on; what’s the use? You’d better let bygones be bygones. You know what I mean — marry me.”
 “I don’t think I could do that.”
 “You like some other chap. You like some chap, and don’t want me interfering in your life. That’s why you wants me to go back and live with my wife. You don’t think of what I’ve gone through with her already.”
 “You’ve not been through half of what I have. I’ll be bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have.”
 “Esther, think of the child.”
 “You’re a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I who worked and slaved for him all these years.”
 “Then I’m to take no for an answer?”
 “I don’t want to have nothing to do with you.”
 “And you won’t let me see the child?”
 A moment later Esther answered, “You can see the child, if you like.”
 “Where is he?”
 “You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if you like. Now let me go in.”
 “What time shall I come for you?”
 “About three — a little after.”

XXVI
WILLIAM was waiting for her in the area; and while pinning on her hat she thought of what she should say, and how she should act. Should she tell him that she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin that was to hold her hat to her hair went through the straw with a little sharp sound, and she decided that when the time came she would know what to say.
 As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, she noticed how beautifully dressed he was. He wore a pair of grey trousers, and in his spick and span morning coat there was a bunch of carnations.
 They walked some half-dozen yards up the street in silence.
 “But why do you want to see the boy? You never thought of him all these years.”
 “I’ll tell you, Esther .... But it is nice to be walking out with you again. If you’d only let bygones be bygones we might settle down together yet. What do you think?”
 She did not answer, and he continued, “It do seem strange to be walking out with you again, meeting you after all these years, and I’m never in your neighbourhood. I just happened to have a bit of business with a friend who lives your way, and was coming along from his ’ouse, turning over in my mind what he had told me about Rising Sun for the Stewards’ Cup, when I saw you coming along with the jug in your ’and. I said, ‘That’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen this many a day; that’s the sort of girl I’d like to see behind the bar of the “King’s Head.”’ You always keeps your figure — you know you ain’t a bit changed; and when I caught sight of those white teeth I said, ‘Lor’, why, it’s Esther.’”
 “I thought it was about the child you was going to speak to me.”
 “So I am, but you came first in my estimation. The moment I looked into your eyes I felt it had been a mistake all along, and that you was the only one I had cared about.”
 “Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack of lies?”
 “No, they weren’t lies. I wanted both mother and child — if I could get ’em, ye know. I’m telling you the unvarnished truth, Esther. I thought of the child as a way of getting you back; but little by little I began to take an interest in him, to wonder what he was like, and with thoughts of the boy came different thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of my boy. Then I wanted you both back; and I’ve thought of nothing else ever since.”
 At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway, and William pressed forward to get the tickets. A subterraneous rumbling was heard, and they ran down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them so near the ticket-collector held the door open for them, and just as the train was moving from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-class compartment.
 “We’re in the wrong class,” she cried.
 “No, we ain’t; get in, get in,” he shouted. And with the guard crying to him to desist, he hopped in after her, saying, “You very nearly made me miss the train. What ’ud you’ve done if the train had taken you away and left me behind?”
 The remark was not altogether a happy one.
 “Then you travel second-class?” Esther said.
 “Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy never would, but second seems to me quite good enough. I don’t care about third, unless one is with a lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. That’s the way we manage it when we go down to Newmarket or Doncaster.”
 They were alone in the compartment. William leaned forward and took her hand.
 “Try to forgive me, Esther.”
 She drew her hand away; he got up, and sat down beside her, and put his arm around her waist.
 “No, no. I’ll have none of that. All that sort of thing is over between us.”
 He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act.
 “I know you’ve had a hard time, Esther. Tell me about it. What did you do when you left Woodview?” He unfortunately added, “Did you ever meet any one since that you cared for?”
 The question irritated her, and she said, “It don’t matter to you who I met or what I went through.”
 The conversation paused. William spoke about the Barfields, and Esther could not but listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview during the last eight years.
 Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her misfortune. She had gone there when the sap of life was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview had become the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered from life. She remembered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park and its down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of elms. She remembered the race-horses, their slight forms showing under the grey clothing, the round black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in the hanging hoods, the odd little boys astride — a string of six or seven passing always before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gate under the bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings when the horse won at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meant too much in her life to be forgotten; its hillside and its people were drawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Something in William’s voice recalled her from her reverie, and she heard him say —
 “The poor Gaffer, ’e never got over it; it regular broke ’im up. I forgot to tell you, it was Ginger who was riding. It appears that he did all he knew; he lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn’t no go, luck was against them; the ’orse was full of running, and, of course, he couldn’t sit down and saw his blooming ’ead off, right in th’ middle of the course, with Sir Thomas’s (that’s the ’andicapper) field-glasses on him. He’d have been warned off the blooming ’eath, and he couldn’t afford that, even to save his own father. The ’orse won in a canter: they clapped eight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. It broke the Gaffer’s ’eart. He had to sell off his ’orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died of consumption. It generally takes them off earlier; but they say it is in the family. Miss May —”
 “Oh, tell me about her,” said Esther, who had been thinking all the while of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary. “Tell me, there’s nothing the matter with Miss Mary?”
 “Yes, there is: she can’t live no more in England; she has to go to winter, I think it is, in Algeria.”
 At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and vibrating under the force of the brakes, it passed out of the tunnel into Blackfriars.
 “We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past four to Peckham,” she said, and they ran up the high steps. William strode along so fast that Esther was obliged to cry out, “There’s no use, William; train or no train, I can’t walk at that rate.”
 There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate Hill. They were in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed to draw up the windows so that they might be able to talk more easily. He was interested in the ill-luck that had attended certain horses, and Esther wanted to hear about Mrs. Barfield.
 “You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do for you?”
 “Everything — that was after you went away. She was kind.”
 “I’m glad to hear that,” said William.
 “So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes to foreign parts for the winter?”
 “Yes, that’s it. Most of the estate was sold; but Mrs. Barfield, the Saint — you remember we used to call her the Saint — well, she has her fortune, about five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there in a sort of hole-and-corner sort of way. They can’t afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of October they go off and don’t return till the beginning of May. Woodview ain’t what it was. You remember the stables they were putting up when Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they are just as when you last saw them — rafters and walls.”
 “Racing don’t seem to bring no luck to any one. It ain’t my affair, but if I was you I’d give it up and get to some honest work.”
“Racing has been a good friend to me. I don’t know where I should be without it to-day.”
 “So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what has become of them.”
 “You remember my mother, the cook? She died a couple of years ago.”
 “Mrs. Latch! Oh, I’m so sorry.”
 “She was an old woman. You remember John Randal, the butler? He’s in a situation in Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes comes round and has a glass in the ‘King’s Head.’ Sarah Tucker — she’s in a situation somewhere in town. I don’t know what has become of Margaret Gale.”
 “I met her one day in the Strand. I’d had nothing to eat all day. I was almost fainting, and she took me into a public-house and gave me a sausage.”
 The train began to slacken speed, and William said, “This is Peckham.”
 They handed up their tickets, and passed into the air of an irregular little street — low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars tinkled through a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were accustomed to.
 “This way,” said Esther. “This is the way to the Rye.”
 “Then Jackie lives at the Rye?”
 “Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich?”
 “No, I never was here before.”
 “Mrs. Lewis (that’s the woman who looks after him) lives at East Dulwich, but it ain’t very far. I always gets out here. I suppose you don’t mind a quarter of an hour’s walk.”
 “Not when I’m with you,” William replied gallantly, and he followed her through the passers-by.
 The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in the town and wending far away into a country prospect. At the Peckham end there were a dozen handsome trees, and under them a piece of artificial water where boys were sailing toy boats, and a poodle was swimming. Two old ladies in black came out of a garden full of hollyhocks; they walked towards a seat and sat down in the autumn landscape. And as William and Esther pursued their way the Rye seemed to grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast expanse full of the last days of cricket; it was charming with slender trees and a Japanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. An upland background in gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steep hillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a picturesque and abrupt end.
 “But it ain’t nearly so big as Chester race-course. A regular cockpit of a place is the Chester course; and not every horse can get round it.”
 Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind them, they ascended a long, monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little houses, each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued all the way to the top of a long hill, straggling into a piece of waste ground where there were some trees and a few rough cottages. A little boy came running towards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters with which the place was strewn, and William felt that that child was his.
 “That child will break ’is blooming little neck if ’e don’t take care,” he remarked tentatively.
 She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete ownership she clasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of explanation, and she questioned the child on matters about which William knew nothing.
 William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to introduce them. Mother and child were both so glad in each other that they forgot the fine gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked towards his father, and she repented a little of her cruelty.
 “Jackie,” she said, “do you know who this gentleman is who has come to see you?”
 “No, I don’t.”
 She did not care that Jackie should love his father, and yet she could not help feeling sorry for William.
 “I’m your father,” said William.
 “No, you ain’t. I ain’t got no father.”
 “How do you know, Jackie?”
 “Father died before I was born; mother told me.”
 “But mother may be mistaken.”
 “If my father hadn’t died before I was born he’d ‘ve been to see us before this. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs. Lewis ’as got hot cakes, and they’ll be burnt if we stand talking.”
 “Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true; he is your father.”
 Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, “I told you your father was dead, but I was mistaken.”
 “Won’t you come and walk with me?” said William.
 “No, thank you; I like to walk with mother.”
 “He’s always like that with strangers,” said Esther; “it is shyness; but he’ll come and talk to you presently, if you leave him alone.”
 Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow crowns of sunflowers showed over the broken palings, and Mrs. Lewis’s large face came into the windowpane. A moment later she was at the front door welcoming her visitors. The affection of her welcome was checked when she saw that William was with Esther, and she drew aside respectfully to let this fine gentleman pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther said —
 “This is Jackie’s father.”
 “What, never! I thought — but I’m sure we’re very glad to see you.” Then noticing the fine gold chain that hung across his waistcoat, the cut of his clothes, and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed to represent, she became a little obsequious in her welcome.
 “I’m sure, sir, we’re very glad to see you. Won’t you sit down?” and dusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to him. Then turning to Esther, she said —
 “Sit yourself down, dear; tea’ll be ready in a moment.” She was one of those women who, although their apron-strings are a good yard in length, preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech. “I ’ope, sir, we’ve brought ’im up to your satisfaction; we’ve done the best we could. He’s a dear boy. There’s been a bit of jealousy between us on his account, but for all that we ’aven’t spoilt him. I don’t want to praise him, but he’s as well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit wilful, but there ain’t much fault to find with him, and I ought to know, for it is I that ’ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of two months old. Jackie, dear, why don’t you go to your father?”
 He stood by his mother’s chair, twisting his slight legs in a manner that was peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick, heavy locks over his small face, and from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous eyes glanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told him to take his finger out of his mouth, and thus encouraged he went towards William, still twisting his legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak for some time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him and draw him against his knees. Then fixing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he said somewhat abruptly, but confidentially —
 “Are you really my father? No humbug, you know,” he added, raising his eyes, and for a moment looking William searchingly in the face.
 “I’m not humbugging, Jack. I’m your father right enough. Don’t you like me? But I think you said you didn’t want to have a father?”
 Jackie did not answer this question. After a moment’s reflection, he said,
“If you be father, why didn’t you come to see us before?”
William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at Mrs. Lewis.
 “I’m afraid that’s rather a long story, Jackie. I was away in foreign parts.”
 Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about “foreign parts,” and William awaited the question that seemed to tremble on the child’s lips.
But, instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and said —
“The cakes aren’t burnt, are they? I ran as fast as I could the moment I saw them coming.”
 The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh, and an unpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. Lewis took the plate of cakes from the fender and poured out their tea. The door and window were open, and the dying light lent a tenderness to the tea table, to the quiet solicitude of the mother watching her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits; to the eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning forward delighted at every look and word, thinking it all astonishing, wonderful. Jackie sat between the women. He seemed to understand that his chance of eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and he ate with his eyes fixed on the plate, considering which piece he would have when he had finished the piece he had in his hand. Little was said — a few remarks about the fine weather, and offers to put out another cup of tea. By their silence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had differences to settle, and that she had better leave them. She took her shawl from the peg, and pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But she wouldn’t be more than half-an-hour; would they look after the house till her return? And William watched her, thinking of what he would say when she was out of hearing. “That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you’ve been a good mother, I can see that. If I had only known.”
 “There’s no use talking no more about it; what’s done is done.”
 The cottage door was open, and in the still evening they could see their child swinging on the gate. The moment was tremulous with responsibility, and yet the words as they fell from their lips seemed accidental.
 At last he said —
 “Esther, I can get a divorce.”
 “You’d much better go back to your wife. Once married, always married, that’s my way of thinking.”
 “I’m sorry to hear you say it, Esther. Do you think a man should stop with his wife who’s been treated as I have been?”
 Esther avoided a direct reply. Why should he care about the child? He had never done anything for him. William said that if he had known there was a child he would have left his wife long ago. He believed that he loved the child just as much as she did, and didn’t believe in marriage without children.
 “That would have been very wrong.”
 “We ain’t getting no for’arder by discussing them things,” he said, interrupting her. “We can’t say good-bye after this evening and never see one another again.”
 “Why not? I’m nothing to you now; you’ve got a wife of your own; you’ve no claim upon me; you can go your way and I can keep to mine.”
 “There’s that child. I must do something for him.”
 “Well, you can do something for him without ruining me.”
 “Ruining you, Esther?”
 “Yes, ruining me. I ain’t going to lose my character by keeping company with a married man. You’ve done me harm enough already, and should be ashamed to think of doing me any more. You can pay for the boy’s schooling if you like, you can pay for his keep too, but you mustn’t think that in doing so you’ll get hold of me again.”
 “Do you mean it, Esther?”
 “Followers ain’t allowed where I am. You’re a married man. I won’t have it.”
 “But when I get my divorce?”
 “When you get your divorce! I don’t know how it’ll be then. But here’s
Mrs. Lewis; she’s a-scolding of Jackie for swinging on that ’ere gate.
Naughty boy; he’s been told twenty times not to swing on the gate.”
Esther complained that they had stayed too long, that he had made her late, and treated his questions about Jackie with indifference. He might write if he had anything important to say, but she could not keep company with a married man. William seemed very downcast. Esther, too, was unhappy, and she did not know why. She had succeeded as well as she had expected, but success had not brought that sense of satisfaction which she had expected it would. Her idea had been to keep William out of the way and hurry on her marriage with Fred. But this marriage, once so ardently desired, no longer gave her any pleasure. She had told Fred about the child. He had forgiven her. But now she remembered that men were very forgiving before marriage, but how did she know that he would not reproach her with her fault the first time they came to disagree about anything? Ah, it was all misfortune. She had no luck. She didn’t want to marry anyone.
 That visit to Dulwich had thoroughly upset her. She ought to have kept out of William’s way — that man seemed to have a power over her, and she hated him for it. What did he want to see the child for? The child was nothing to him. She had been a fool; now he’d be after the child; and through this fever of trouble there raged an acute desire to know what Jackie thought of his father, what Mrs. Lewis thought of William.
 And the desire to know what was happening became intolerable. She went to her mistress to ask for leave to go out. Very little of her agitation betrayed itself in her demeanour, but Miss Rice’s sharp eyes had guessed that her servant’s life was at a crisis. She laid her book on her knee, asked a few kind, discreet questions, and after dinner Esther hurried towards the Underground.
 The door of the cottage was open, and as she crossed the little garden she heard Mrs. Lewis say —
 “Now you must be a good boy, and not go out in the garden and spoil your new clothes.” And when Esther entered Mrs. Lewis was giving the finishing touches to the necktie which she had just tied. “Now you’ll go and sit on that chair, like a good boy, and wait there till your father comes.”
 “Oh, here’s mummie,” cried the boy, and he darted out of Mrs. Lewis’s hand. “Look at my new clothes, mummie; look at them!” And Esther saw her boy dressed in a suit of velveteen knickerbockers with brass buttons, and a sky-blue necktie.
 “His father — I mean Mr. Latch — came here on Thursday morning, and took him to —”
 “Took me up to London —”
 “And brought him back in those clothes.”
 “We went to such a big shop in Oxford Street for them, and they took down many suits before they could get one to fit. Father is that difficult to please, and I thought we should go away without any clothes, and I couldn’t walk about London with father in these old things. Aren’t they shabby?” he added, kicking them contemptuously. It was a little grey suit that Esther had made for him with her own hands.
 “Father had me measured for another suit, but it won’t be ready for a few days. Father took me to the Zoological Gardens, and we saw the lions and tigers, and there are such a lot of monkeys. There is one —But what makes you look so cross, mummie dear? Don’t you ever go out with father in London? London is such a beautiful place. And then we walked through the park and saw a lot of boys sailing boats. Father asked me if I had a boat. I said you couldn’t afford to buy me toys. He said that was hard lines on me, and on the way back to the station we stopped at a toy-shop and he bought me a boat. May I show you my boat?”
 Jackie was too much occupied with thoughts of his boat to notice the gloom that was gathering on his mother’s face; Mrs. Lewis wished to call upon him to desist, but before she could make up her mind what to do, he had brought the toy from the table and was forcing it into his mother’s hands. “This is a cutter-rigged boat, because it has three sails and only one mast. Father told me it was. He’ll be here in half-an-hour; we’re going to sail the boat in the pond on the Rye, and if it gets across all right he’ll take me to the park where there’s a big piece of water, twice, three times as big as the water on the Rye. Do you think, mummie, that I shall ever be able to get my boat across such a piece of water as the — I’ve forgotten the name. What do they call it, mummie?”
 “Oh, I don’t know; don’t bother me with your boat.”
 “Oh, mummie, what have I done that you won’t look at my boat? Aren’t you coming with father to the Rye to see me sail it?”
 “I don’t want to go with you. You want me no more. I can’t afford to give you boats .... Come, don’t plague me any more with your toy,” she said, pushing it away, and then in a moment of convulsive passion she threw the boat across the room. It struck the opposite wall, its mast was broken, and the sails and cords made a tangled little heap. Jackie ran to his toy, he picked it up, and his face showed his grief. “I shan’t be able to sail my boat now; it won’t sail, its mast and the sails is broke. Mummie, what did you break my boat for?” and the child burst into tears. At that moment William entered.
 “What is the child crying for?” he asked, stopping abruptly on the threshold. There was a slight tone of authority in his voice which angered Esther still more.
 “What is it to you what he is crying for?” she said, turning quickly round. “What has the child got to do with you that you should come down ordering people about for? A nice sort of mean trick, and one that is just like you. You beg and pray of me to let you see the child, and when I do you come down here on the sly, and with the present of a suit of clothes and a toy boat you try to win his love away from his mother.”
 “Esther, Esther, I never thought of getting his love from you. I meant no harm. Mrs. Lewis said that he was looking a trifle moped; we thought that a change would do him good, and so —”
 “Ah! it was Mrs. Lewis that asked you to take him up to London. It is a strange thing what a little money will do. Ever since you set foot in this cottage she has been curtseying to you, handing you chairs. I didn’t much like it, but I didn’t think that she would round on me in this way.” Then turning suddenly on her old friend, she said, “Who told you to let him have the child? ... Is it he or I who pays you for his keep? Answer me that. How much did he give you — a new dress?”
 “Oh, Esther, I am surprised at you: I didn’t think it would come to accusing me of being bribed, and after all these years.” Mrs. Lewis put her apron to her eyes, and Jackie stole over to his father.
 “It wasn’t I who smashed the boat, it was mummie; she’s in a passion. I don’t know why she smashed it. I didn’t do nothing.”
 William took the child on his knee.
 “She didn’t mean to smash it. There’s a good boy, don’t cry no more.”
 Jackie looked at his father. “Will you buy me another? The shops aren’t open to-day.” Then getting off his father’s knee he picked up the toy, and coming back he said, “Could we mend the boat somehow? Do you think we could?”
 “Jackie, dear, go away; leave your father alone. Go into the next room,” said Mrs. Lewis.
 “No, he can stop here; let him be,” said Esther. “I want to have no more to say to him, he can look to his father for the future.” Esther turned on her heel and walked straight for the door. But dropping his boat with a cry, the little fellow ran after her and clung to her skirt despairingly. “No, mummie dear, you mustn’t go; never mind the boat; I love you better than the boat — I’ll do without a boat.”
 “Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen.”
 “No, I won’t listen to you. But you shall listen to me. When I brought you here last week you asked me in the train what I had been doing all these years. I didn’t answer you, but I will now. I’ve been in the workhouse.”
 “In the workhouse!”
 “Yes, do that surprise you?”
 Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him as if they were half-bricks, she told him the story of the last eight years — Queen Charlotte’s hospital, Mrs. Rivers, Mrs. Spires, the night on the Embankment, and the workhouse.
“And when I came out of the workhouse I travelled London in search of sixteen pounds a year wages, which was the least I could do with, and when I didn’t find them I sat here and ate dry bread. She’ll tell you — she saw it all. I haven’t said nothing about the shame and sneers I had to put up with — you would understand nothing about that, — and there was more than one situation I was thrown out of when they found I had a child. For they didn’t like loose women in their houses; I had them very words said about me. And while I was going through all that you was living in riches with a lady in foreign parts; and now when she could put up with you no longer, and you’re kicked out, you come to me and ask for your share of the child. Share of the child! What share is yours, I’d like to know?”
 “Esther!”
 “In your mean, underhand way you come here on the sly to see if you can’t steal the love of the child from me.”
 She could speak no more; her strength was giving way before the tumult of her passion, and the silence that had come suddenly into the room was more terrible than her violent words. William stood quaking, horrified, wishing the earth would swallow him; Mrs. Lewis watched Esther’s pale face, fearing that she would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open round, held his broken boat still in his hand. The sense of the scene had hardly caught on his childish brain; he was very frightened; his tears and sobs were a welcome intervention. Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried to soothe him. William tried to speak; his lips moved, but no words came.
 Mrs. Lewis whispered, “You’ll get no good out of her now, her temper’s up; you’d better go. She don’t know what she’s a-saying of.”
 “If one of us has to go,” said William, taking the hint, “there can’t be much doubt which of us.” He stood at the door holding his hat, just as if he were going to put it on. Esther stood with her back turned to him. At last he said —
 “Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don’t want to see me again?”
 For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to Mrs. Lewis for protection. William’s face showed that he was pained by Jackie’s refusal.
 “Try to get your mother to forgive me; but you are right to love her best. She’s been a good mother to you.” He put on his hat and went without another word. No one spoke, and every moment the silence grew more paralysing. Jackie examined his broken boat for a moment, and then he put it away, as if it had ceased to have any interest for him. There was no chance of going to the Rye that day; he might as well take off his velvet suit; besides, his mother liked him better in his old clothes. When he returned his mother was sorry for having broken his boat, and appreciated the cruelty. “You shall have another boat, my darling,” she said, leaning across the table and looking at him affectionately; “and quite as good as the one I broke.”
 “Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter-rigged, like that?”
 “Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three sails.”
 “When will you buy me the boat, mummie — to-morrow?”
 “As soon as I can, Jackie.”
 This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he looked —
 “Is father coming back no more?”
 “Do you want him back?”
 Jackie hesitated; his mother pressed him for an answer.
 “Not if you don’t, mummie.”
 “But if he was to give you another boat, one with four sails?”
 “They don’t have four sails, not them with one mast.”
 “If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would you take it?”
 “I should try not to, I should try ever so hard.”
 There were tears in Jackie’s voice, and then, as if doubtful of his power to resist temptation, he buried his face in his mother’s bosom and sobbed bitterly.
 “You shall have another boat, my darling.”
 “I don’t want no boat at all! I love you better than a boat, mummie, indeed I do.”
 “And what about those clothes? You’d sooner stop with me and wear those shabby clothes than go to him and wear a pretty velvet suit?”
 “You can send back the velvet suit.”
 “Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another velvet suit,” and she embraced the child with all her strength, and covered him with kisses.
 “But why can’t I wear that velvet suit, and why can’t father come back? Why don’t you like father? You shouldn’t be cross with father because he gave me the boat. He didn’t mean no harm.”
 “I think you like your father. You like him better than me.”
 “Not better than you, mummie.”
 “You wouldn’t like to have any other father except your own real father?”
 “How could I have a father that wasn’t my own real father?”
 Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie began to talk about the possibility of mending his boat; and feeling that something irrevocable had happened, Esther put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewis and Jackie accompanied her to the station. The women kissed each other on the platform and were reconciled, but there was a vague sensation of sadness in the leave-taking which they did not understand. And Esther sat alone in a third-class carriage absorbed in consideration of the problem of her life. The life she had dreamed would never be hers — somehow she seemed to know that she would never be Fred’s wife. Everything seemed to point to the inevitableness of this end.
 She had determined to see William no more, but he wrote asking how she would like him to contribute towards the maintenance of the child, and this could not be settled without personal interviews. Miss Rice and Mrs. Lewis seemed to take it for granted that she would marry William when he obtained his divorce. He was applying himself to the solution of this difficulty, and professed himself to be perfectly satisfied with the course that events were taking. And whenever she saw Jackie he inquired after his father; he hoped, too, that she had forgiven poor father, who had never meant no harm at all. Day by day she saw more clearly that her instinct was right in warning her not to let the child see William, that she had done wrong in allowing her feelings to be overruled by Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her for the best. But it was clear to her now that Jackie never would take kindly to Fred as a stepfather; that he would never forgive her if she divided him from his real father by marrying another man. He would grow to dislike his stepfather more and more; and when he grew older he would keep away from the house on account of the presence of his stepfather; it would end by his going to live with him. He would be led into a life of betting and drinking; she would lose her child if she married Fred.
 XXVII
 It was one evening as she was putting things away in the kitchen before going up to bed that she heard some one rap at the window. Could this be Fred? Her heart was beating; she must let him in. The area was in darkness; she could see no one.
 “Who is there?” she cried.
 “It’s only me. I had to see you to-night on —”
 She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in.
 William had expected a rougher reception. The tone in which Esther invited him in was almost genial, and there was no need of so many excuses; but he had come prepared with excuses, and a few ran off his tongue before he was aware.
 “Well,” said Esther, “it is rather late. I was just going up to bed; but you can tell me what you’ve come about, if it won’t take long.”
 “It won’t take long .... I’ve seen my solicitor this afternoon, and he says that I shall find it very difficult to get a divorce.”
 “So you can’t get your divorce?”
 “Are you glad?”
 “I don’t know.”
 “What do you mean? You must be either glad or sorry.”
 “I said what I mean. I am not given to telling lies.” Esther set the large tin candlestick, on which a wick was spluttering, on the kitchen table, and William looked at her inquiringly. She was always a bit of a mystery to him. And then he told her, speaking very quickly, how he had neglected to secure proofs of his wife’s infidelity at the time; and as she had lived a circumspect although a guilty life ever since, the solicitor thought that it would be difficult to establish a case against her.
 “Perhaps she never was guilty,” said Esther, unable to resist the temptation to irritate.
 “Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven’t I told you how I found them the day I came up from Ascot? ... And didn’t she own up to it? What more proof do you want?”
 “Anyway, it appears you haven’t enough; what are you going to do? Wait until you catch her out?”
 “There is nothing else to do, unless —” William paused, and his eyes wandered from Esther’s.
 “Unless what?”
 “Well, you see my solicitors have been in communication with her solicitors, and her solicitors say that if it were the other way round, that if I gave her reason to go against me for a divorce, she would be glad of the chance. That’s all they said at first, but since then I’ve seen my wife, and she says that if I’ll give her cause to get a divorce she’ll not only go for it, but will pay all the legal expenses; it won’t cost us a penny. What do you think Esther?”
 “I don’t know that I understand. You don’t mean —”
 “You see, Esther, that to get a divorce — there’s no one who can hear us, is there?”
 “No, there’s no one in the ’ouse except me and the missus, and she’s in the study reading. Go on.”
 “It seems that one of the parties must go and live with another party before either can get a divorce. Do you understand?”
 “You don’t mean that you want me to go and live with you, and perhaps get left a second time?”
 “That’s all rot, Esther, and you knows it.”
 “If that’s all you’ve got to say to me you’d better take your hook.”
 “Do you see, there’s the child to consider? And you know well enough, Esther, that you’ve nothing to fear; you knows as well as can be that I mean to run straight this time. So I did before. But let bygones be bygones, and I know you’d like the child to have a father; so if only for his sake —”
 “For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn’t done enough for him. Haven’t I worked and slaved myself to death and gone about in rags? That’s what that child has cost me. Tell me what he’s cost you. Not a penny piece — a toy boat and a suit of velveteen knickerbockers, — and yet you come telling me — I’d like to know what’s expected of me. Is a woman never to think of herself? Do I count for nothing? For the child’s sake, indeed! Now, if it was anyone else but you. Just tell me where do I come in? That’s what I want to know. I’ve played the game long enough. Where do I come in? That’s what I want to know.”
 “There’s no use flying in a passion, Esther. I know you’ve had a hard time. I know it was all very unlucky from the very first. But there’s no use saying that you might get left a second time, for you know well enough that that ain’t true. Say you won’t do it; you’re a free woman, you can act as you please. It would be unjust to ask you to give up anything more for the child; I agree with you in all that. But don’t fly in a rage with me because I came to tell you there was no other way out of the difficulty.”
 “You can go and live with another woman, and get a divorce that way.”
 “Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I’d speak to you on the subject. For if I did go and live with another woman I couldn’t very well desert her after getting a divorce.”
 “You deserted me.”
 “Why go back on that old story?”
 “It ain’t an old story, it’s the story of my life, and I haven’t come to the end of it yet.”
 “But you’ll have got to the end of it if you’ll do what I say.”
 A moment later Esther said —
 “I don’t know what you want to get a divorce for at all. I daresay your wife would take you back if you were to ask her.”
 “She’s no children, and never will have none, and marriage is a poor look-out without children — all the worry and anxiety for nothing. What do we marry for but children? There’s no other happiness. I’ve tried everything else —”
 “But I haven’t.”
 “I know all that. I know you’ve had a damned hard time, Esther. I’ve had a good week at Doncaster, and have enough money to buy my partner out; we shall ’ave the ’ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I don’t think we’ll ’ave much difficulty in building it up into a very nice property, all of which will in time go to the boy. I’m doing pretty well, I told you, in the betting line, but if you like I’ll give it up. I’ll never lay or take the odds again. I can’t say more, Esther, can I? Come, say yes,” he said, reaching his arm towards her.
 “Don’t touch me,” she said surlily, and drew back a step with air of resolution that made him doubt if he would be able to persuade her.
 “Now, Esther —” William did not finish. It seemed useless to argue with her, and he looked at the great red ash of the tallow candle.
 “You are the mother of my boy, so it is different; but to advise me to go and live with another woman! I shouldn’t have thought it of a religious girl like you.”
 “Religion! There’s very little time for religion in the places I’ve had to work in.” Then, thinking of Fred, she added that she had returned to Christ, and hoped He would forgive her. William encouraged her to speak of herself, remarking that, chapel or no chapel, she seemed just as severe and particular as ever. “If you won’t, I can only say I am sorry; but that shan’t prevent me from paying you as much a week as you think necessary for Jack’s keep and his schooling. I don’t want the boy to cost you anything. I’d like to do a great deal more for the boy, but I can’t do more unless you make him my child.”
 “And I can only do that by going away to live with you?” The words brought an instinctive look of desire into her eyes.
 “In six months we shall be man and wife .... Say yes.”
 “I can’t ... I can’t, don’t ask me.”
 “You’re afraid to trust me, is that it?”
 Esther did not answer.
 “I can make that all right: I’ll settle £500 on you and the child.”
 She looked up; the same look was in her eyes, only modified, softened by some feeling of tenderness which had come into her heart.
 He put his arm round her; she was leaning against the table; he was sitting on the edge.
 “You know that I mean to act rightly by you.”
 “Yes, I think you do.”
 “Then say yes.”
 “I can’t — it is too late.”
 “There’s another chap?”
 She nodded.
 “I thought as much. Do you care for him?”
 She did not answer.
 He drew her closer to him; she did not resist; he could see that she was weeping. He kissed her on her neck first, and then on her face; and he continued to ask her if she loved the other chap. At last she signified that she did not.
 “Then say yes.” She murmured that she could not. “You can, you can, you can.” He kissed her, all the while reiterating, “You can, you can, you can,” until it became a sort of parrot cry. Several minutes elapsed, and the candle began to splutter in its socket. She said —
 “Let me go; let me light the gas.”
 As she sought for the matches she caught sight of the clock.
 “I did not know it was so late.”
 “Say yes before I go.”
 “I can’t.”
 And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. “I’m too tired,” she said, “let me go.”
 He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, “My own little wife.”
 As he went up the area steps she remembered that he had used the same words before. She tried to think of Fred, but William’s great square shoulders had come between her and this meagre little man. She sighed, and felt once again that her will was overborne by a force which she could not control or understand.

XXVIII
SHE WENT round the house bolting and locking the doors, seeing that everything was made fast for the night. At the foot of the stairs painful thoughts came upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes; for she was whelmed with a sense of sorrow, of purely mental misery, which she could not understand, and which she had not strength to grapple with. She was, however, conscious of the fact that life was proving too strong for her, that she could make nothing of it, and she thought that she did not care much what happened. She had fought with adverse fate, and had conquered in a way; she had won countless victories over herself, and now found herself without the necessary strength for the last battle; she had not even strength for blame, and merely wondered why she had let William kiss her. She remembered how she had hated him, and now she hated him no longer. She ought not to have spoken to him; above all, she ought not to have taken him to see the child. But how could she help it?
 She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was moved by a sudden impulse to go in and tell her the story of her trouble. But what good? No one could help her. She liked Fred; they seemed to suit each other, and she could have made him a good wife if she had not met William. She thought of the cottage at Mortlake, and their lives in it; and she sought to stimulate her liking for him with thoughts of the meeting-house; she thought even of the simple black dress she would wear, and that life seemed so natural to her that she did not understand why she hesitated .... If she were to marry William she would go to the “King’s Head.”
 She would stand behind the bar; she would serve the customers. She had never seen much life, and felt somehow that she would like to see a little life; there would not be much life in the cottage at Mortlake; nothing but the prayer-meeting. She stopped thinking, surprised at her thoughts. She had never thought like that before; it seemed as if some other woman whom she hardly knew was thinking for her. She seemed like one standing at cross-roads, unable to decide which road she would take. If she took the road leading to the cottage and the prayer-meeting her life would henceforth be secure. She could see her life from end to end, even to the time when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her hand as she had seen his father and mother sitting side by side. If she took the road to the public-house and the race-course she did not know what might not happen. But William had promised to settle £500 on her and Jackie. Her life would be secure either way.
 She must marry Fred; she had promised to marry him; she wished to be a good woman; he would give her the life she was most fitted for, the life she had always desired; the life of her father and mother, the life of her childhood. She would marry Fred, only — something at that moment seemed to take her by the throat. William had come between her and that life. If she had not met him at Woodview long ago; if she had not met him in the Pembroke Road that night she went to fetch the beer for her mistress’s dinner, how different everything would have been! ... If she had met him only a few months later, when she was Fred’s wife!
 Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife of one or the other, she fell asleep to dream of a husband possessed of the qualities of both, and a life that was neither all chapel nor all public-house. But soon the one became two, and Esther awoke in terror, believing she had married them both.

XXIX
IF FRED had said, “Come away with me,” Esther would have obeyed the elemental romanticism which is so fixed a principle in woman’s nature. But when she called at the shop he only spoke of his holiday, of the long walks he had taken, and the religious and political meetings he had attended. Esther listened vaguely; and there was in her mind unconscious regret that he was not a little different. Little irrelevant thoughts came upon her. She would like him better if he wore coloured neckties and a short jacket; she wished half of him away — his dowdiness, his sandy-coloured hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the long loose frock-coat. But his voice was keen and ringing, and when listening her heart always went out to him, and she felt that she might fearlessly entrust her life to him. But he did not seem wholly to understand her, and day by day, against her will, the thought gripped her more and more closely that she could not separate Jackie from his father. She would have to tell Fred the whole truth, and he would not understand it; that she knew. But it would have to be done, and she sent round to say she’d like to see him when he left business. Would he step round about eight o’clock?
 The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a tap at the window. She opened the door and he came in, surprised by the silence with which she received him.
 “I hope nothing has happened. Is anything the matter?”
 “Yes, a great deal’s the matter. I’m afraid we shall never be married,
Fred, that’s what’s the matter.”
“How’s that, Esther? What can prevent us getting married?” She did not answer, and then he said, “You’ve not ceased to care for me?”
 “No, that’s not it.”
 “Jackie’s father has come back?”
 “You’ve hit it, that’s what happened.”
 “I’m sorry that man has come across you again. I thought you told me he was married. But, Esther, don’t keep me in suspense; what has he done?”
 “Sit down; don’t stand staring at me in that way, and I’ll tell you the story.”
 Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine suffering, Esther told her story, laying special stress on the fact that she had done her best to prevent him from seeing the child.
 “I don’t see how you could have forbidden him access to the child.”
 He often used words that Esther did not understand, but guessing his meaning, she answered —
 “That’s just what the missus said; she argued me into taking him to see the child. I knew once he’d seen Jackie there’d be no getting rid of him. I shall never get rid of him again.”
 “He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low blackguard fellow that he is, to come after you, persecuting you. But don’t you fear; you leave him to me. I’ll find a way of stopping his little game.”
 Esther looked at his frail figure.
 “You can do nothing; no one can do nothing,” she said, and the tears trembled in her handsome eyes. “He wants me to go away and live with him, so that his wife may be able to divorce him.”
 “Wants you to go away and live with him! But surely, Esther, you do not —”
 “Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that his wife can get a divorce,” Esther answered, for the suspense irritated her; “and how can I refuse to go with him?”
 “Esther, are you serious? You cannot ... You told me that you did not love him, and after all —” He waited for Esther to speak.
 “Yes,” she said very quickly, “there is no way out of it that I can see.”
 “Esther, that man has tempted you, and you have not prayed.”
 She did not answer.
 “I don’t want to hear more of this,” he said, catching up his hat. “I shouldn’t have believed it if I had not heard it from your lips; no, not if the whole world had told me. You are in love with this man, though you may not know it, and you’ve invented this story as a pretext to throw me over. Good-bye, Esther.”
 “Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You’ll not go away in that hasty way.
You’re the only friend I have. Let me explain.”
“Explain! how can such things be explained?”
 “That’s what I thought until all this happened to me. I have suffered dreadful in the last few days. I’ve wept bitter tears, and I thought of all you said about the ’ome you was going to give me.” Her sincerity was unmistakable, and Fred doubted her no longer. “I’m very fond of you, Fred, and if things had been different I think I might have made you a good wife. But it wasn’t to be.”
 “Esther, I don’t understand. You need never see this man again if you don’t wish it.”
 “Nay, nay, things ain’t so easily changed as all that. He’s the father of my child, he’s got money, and he’ll leave his money to his child if he’s made Jackie’s father in the eyes of the law.”
 “That can be done without your going to live with him.”
 “Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants a ’ome, and he won’t be put off with less.”
 “How men can be so wicked as —”
 “No, you do him wrong. He ain’t no more wicked than another; he’s just one of the ordinary sort — not much better or worse. If he’d been a real bad lot it would have been better for us, for then he’d never have come between us. You’re beginning to understand, Fred, ain’t you? If I don’t go with him my boy’ll lose everything. He wants a ’ome — a real ’ome with children, and if he can’t get me he’ll go after another woman.”
 “And are you jealous?”
 “No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like as not I should have children, and they’d be more in your sight than my boy.”
 “Esther, I promise that —”
 “Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, you can’t make sure that he’d love you.”
 “Jackie and I —”
 “Ah, yes; he’d have liked you well enough if he’d never seen his father. But he’s that keen on his father, and it would be worse later on. He’d never be contented in our ’ome. He’d be always after him, and then I should never see him, and he would be led away into betting and drink.”
 “If his father is that sort of man, the best chance for Jackie would be to keep him out of his way. If he gets divorced and marries another woman he will forget all about Jackie.”
 “Yes, that might be,” said Esther, and Fred pursued his advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther said —
 “Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father’s money; the public-house would —”
 “So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther?”
 “A woman must be with her husband.”
 “But he’s not your husband; he’s another woman’s husband.”
 “He’s to marry me when he gets his divorce.”
 “He may desert you and leave you with another child.”
 “You can’t say nothing I ain’t thought of already. I must put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment for the first sin. We can’t do wrong without being punished — at least women can’t. But I thought I’d been punished enough.”
 “The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, Esther — you who I thought so religious.”
 “Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other times when it don’t seem to fit in with one’s duty. I may be wrong, but it seems natural like — he’s the father of my child.”
 “I’m afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice before it’s too late.”
 “Fred, I can’t help myself — can’t you see that? Don’t make it harder for me by talking like that.”
 “When are you going to him?”
 “To-night; he’s waiting for me.”
 “Then good-bye, Esther, good —”
 “But you’ll come and see us.”
 “I hope you’ll be happy, Esther, but I don’t think we shall see much more of each other. You know that I do not frequent public-houses.”
 “Yes, I know; but you might come and see me in the morning when we’re doing no business.”
 Fred smiled sadly.
 “Then you won’t come?” she said.
 “Good-bye, Esther.”
 They shook hands, and he went out hurriedly. She dashed a tear from her eyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had rung for her.
 Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, slanting ray entered the room; the bead curtain glittered, and so peaceful was the impression that Esther could not but perceive the contrast between her own troublous life and the contented privacy of this slender little spinster’s.
 “Well, miss,” she said, “it’s all over. I’ve told him.”
 “Have you, Esther?” said Miss Rice. Her white, delicate hands fell over the closed volume. She wore two little colourless rings and a ruby ring which caught the light.
 “Yes, miss, I’ve told him all. He seemed a good deal cut up. I couldn’t help crying myself, for I could have made him a good wife — I’m sure I could; but it wasn’t to be.”
 “You’ve told him you were going off to live with William?”
 “Yes, miss; there’s nothing like telling the whole truth while you’re about it. I told him I was going off to-night.”
 “He’s a very religious young man?”
 “Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told him I didn’t want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose any money he might have a right to. It don’t look right to go and live with a married man; but you knows, miss, how I’m situated, and you knows that I’m only doing it because it seems for the best.”
 “What did he say to that?”
 “Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a second time — and, he wasn’t slow to add, with another child.”
 “Have you thought of that danger, Esther?”
 “Yes, miss, I’ve thought of everything; but thinking don’t change nothing. Things remain just the same, and you’ve to chance it in the end — leastways a woman has. Not on the likes of you, miss, but the likes of us.”
 “Yes,” said Miss Rice reflectively, “it is always the woman who is sacrificed.” And her thought went back for a moment to the novel she was writing. It seemed to her pale and conventional compared with this rough page torn out of life. She wondered if she could treat the subject. She passed in review the names of some writers who could do justice to it, and then her eyes went from her bookcase to Esther.
 “So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther? You’re going to-night?
I’ve paid you everything I owe you?”
“Yes, miss, you have; you’ve been very kind to me, indeed you have, miss — I shall never forget you, miss. I’ve been very happy in your service, and should like nothing better than to remain on with you.”
 “All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very good servant, and I’m very sorry to part with you. And I hope you’ll remember if things do not turn out as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be glad to do anything in my power to help you. You’ll always find a friend in me. When are you going?”
 “As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about finished by the time the new servant comes in. She’s expected at nine; there she is, miss — that’s the area bell. Good-bye, miss.”
 Miss Rice involuntarily held out her hand. Esther took it, and thus encouraged she said —
 “There never was anyone that clear-headed and warm-hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of trouble, miss .... If I wasn’t yer servant I’d like to kiss you.”
 Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. “You’re not angry with me, miss; I couldn’t help myself.”
 “No, Esther, I’m not angry.”
 “I must go now and let her in.”
 Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a sense of the solitude of her life coming upon her suddenly caused her to burst into tears. It was one of those moments of effusion which take women unawares. But her new servant was coming upstairs and she had to dry her eyes.
 Soon after she heard the cabman’s feet on the staircase as he went up for Esther’s box. They brought it down together, and Miss Rice heard her beg of him to be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and faithful servant to her; she was sorry to lose her. And Esther was equally sorry that anyone but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kind soul. But what could she do? She was going to be married. She did not doubt that William was going to marry her; and the cab had hardly entered the Brompton Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life that awaited her. This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she excused herself with the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred, but as she had failed to get him, it was only right that she should think of her husband. Then quite involuntarily the thought sprang upon her that he was a fine fellow, and she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as he walked down the street. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in which she would sit. She would be mistress of the house. There would be a servant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid.
 The cab swerved round the Circus, and she wondered if she were capable of conducting a business like the “King’s Head.”
 It was the end of a fine September evening, and the black, crooked perspectives of Soho seemed as if they were roofed with gold. A slight mist was rising, and at the end of every street the figures appeared and disappeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had never been in this part of London before; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and she wondered where she was going and which of the many public-houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside, having a glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after the horses. He offered to take down Esther’s box, and when she asked him if he had seen Mr. Latch he took her round to the private bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw William leaning over the counter wrapped in conversation with a small, thin man. They were both smoking, their glasses were filled, and the sporting paper was spread out before them.
 “Oh, so here you are at last,” said William, coming towards her. “I expected you an hour ago.”
 “The new servant was late, and I couldn’t leave before she came.”
 “Never mind; glad you’ve come.”
 Esther felt that the little man was staring hard at her. He was John
Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as they used to call him at Barfield.
Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered a “Glad to see you again,” But it was the welcome of a man who regards a woman’s presence as an intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt with which he looked at William. “Can’t keep away from them,” his face said for one brief moment. William asked Esther what she’d take to drink, and Mr. Leopold looked at his watch and said he must be getting home.
 “Try to come round to-morrow night if you’ve an hour to spare.”
 “Then you don’t think you’ll go to Newmarket?”
 “No, I don’t think I shall do much in the betting way this year. But come round to-morrow night if you can; you’ll find me here. I must be here to-morrow night,” he said, turning to Esther; “I’ll tell you presently.” Then the men had a few more words, and William bade John good-night. Coming back to Esther, he said —
 “What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain’t it?” But before she had time to reply he said, “You’ve brought me good luck. I won two ’undred and fifty pounds to-day, and the money will come in very ’andy, for Jim Stevens, that’s my partner, has agreed to take half the money on account and a bill of sale for the rest. There he is; I’ll introduce you to him. Jim, come this way, will you?”
 “In a moment, when I’ve finished drawing this ’ere glass of beer,” answered a thick-set, short-limbed man. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he crossed the bar wiping the beer from his hands.
 “Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine, Jim, Miss
Waters.”
“Very ’appy, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance,” said Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the counter. “You and my partner are, I ’ear, going to take this ’ere ’ouse off my hands. Well, you ought to make a good thing of it. There’s always room for a ’ouse that supplies good liquor. What can I hoffer you, madam? Some of our whisky has been fourteen years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you’d like to try some of our best unsweetened.”
 Esther declined, but William said they could not leave without drinking the health of the house.
 “Irish or Scotch, ma’am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch.”
 Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther decided that she would try the unsweetened. The glasses were clinked across the counter, and William whispered, “This isn’t what we sell to the public; this is our own special tipple. You didn’t notice, perhaps, but he took the bottle from the third row on the left.”
 At that moment Esther’s cabman came in and wanted to know if he was to have the box taken down. William said it had better remain where it was.
 “I don’t think I told you I’m not living here; my partner has the upper part of the house, but he says he’ll be ready to turn out at the end of the week. I’m living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we’d better keep the cab on.”
 Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. William said he’d stand the cabby a drink, and, winking at Esther, he whispered, “Third row on the left, partner.”