Years afterwards, when Roger recalled the thing that had made him most ashamed of himself before men, it was this house-to-house canvass of Hilary Wainwright's stevedores.
They all lived in mean, dilapidated buildings, down close to the great wharves, on narrow side-streets, never free from the smell of tar and bilge water and refuse. The men were mostly physical giants, with badly shaped heads, small, close-set eyes, and brutal mouths. The women were worn and dull, although here and there, among those with fewer children, faint traces of an anemic, youthful prettiness were fading to shrewish angles and deep lines about the pale lips. The children were dirty and sharp-eyed, with the shifting look and the quick, darting movements of children who live in the streets, dodging policemen and irate parents and passing trucks.
The men glared sullenly at Roger, and, for the most part, made no comment. Some of the women reviled Hilary Wainwright in gutter speech; some were confused; none were grateful. But in the end, they all accepted. If the "kids" did not go to this tree, they would have none. The kids would like it.
On Christmas morning Anne went to the office and helped with the tree. It was the finest that Hilary could find and weighted under innumerable, if cheap, presents, and bags of candy and lights. It was finished a little before twelve, and the clerks and clerks' wives who had helped stood back and admired it.
"It's a lot better than my children are going to have," one woman whispered to Anne.
"It really is pretty, isn't it, Roger?" Anne had enjoyed hanging the thick, silver tinsel and concealing the colored electric globes in the most effective places.
"Yes. It's pretty." Roger had made up his mind to see the thing through decently, but it was difficult.
The lights were switched on for a trial view; every one exclaimed "O-h," and, after other appropriate remarks of appreciation for the beauty of the tree, and Hilary's generosity, left. Anne came close to Roger.
"Next year," she whispered, "we're going to have one exactly like this, only a teeny, weeny one, aren't we?"
Roger did not answer, but as Hilary called to him just then, Anne did not notice. In a moment Roger returned.