"What about that woman?" asked the Colonel moodily.
Joe was chewing his pipe-stem.
"What woman'll that be?"
"Why the one you were talking about to me on Saturday night,—whether you should bolt with her or not."
Joe halted on the kerb-stone and regarded the traffic imperturbably.
"A know nowt o no such woman," he said.
The Colonel glanced at him. Just then he heard the sound of a horn and looking back saw one of the new motor-char-a-bancs of the Touring Syndicate returning crowded to the brim. A man stood on the step with a horn and tootled. Ernie sat in front with Ruth, the boy in her lap asleep against her breast. The Colonel marked the strength and tranquillity of her pose, her arms clasped around the sleeping child. Father, mother, and child were profoundly at peace; one with each other, so it seemed to him, one with life. Joe took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem.
"Yon's her," he said, with stunning impudence.
"I know that then," answered the Colonel. "Your own friend's wife."
Ernie who had seen Joe waved and winked and nudged Ruth. She could not or would not see. Joe waved back casually. Then he turned to the Colonel with a Silenus-like twinkle, his little black eyes of a bear glittering.