"Come," she was saying to Jeffrey, "walk along with me."
He obediently picked up his hat.
"I sha'n't go home with you," said he, "if that's what you mean."
She took his arm and convoyed him down the steps, leaning wearily. She had long ago ceased to exercise happy control over useful muscles. They even creaked in her ears and did strange things when she made requests of them.
"You understand," said Jeffrey, when they were pursuing a slow way along the street, he with a chafed sense of ridiculous captivity. "I sha'n't go into the house. I won't even go to the door."
"Stuff!" said the lady. "You needn't tell me you don't want to see Esther."
Jeff didn't tell her that. He didn't tell her anything. He stolidly guided her along.
"There isn't a man born that wouldn't want to see Esther if he'd seen her once," said Madame Beattie.
But this he neither combated nor confirmed, and at the corner nearest Esther's house he stopped, lifted the hand from his arm and placed it in a stiff rigour at her waist. He then took off his hat, prepared to stand while she went on. And Madame Beattie laughed.
"You're a brute," said she pleasantly, "a dear, sweet brute. Well, you'll come to it. I shall tell Esther you love her so much you hate her, and she'll send out spies after you. Good-bye. If you don't come, I'll come again."