But for the moment she was not listening. "Yes, yes . . ." She had turned her face aside and was gazing out into the darkness. "Look at the gas-jets, Willy—in the fog. What do they remind you of? That Christmas-tree . . . after Dick was born. . . . Don't you remember how he mistook the oranges on it for lanterns and wanted to blow them out . . . how he kicked to get at them . . ."
"It's odd: I was thinking of Dick, just now, when you—when you spoke to me. The lamp put me in mind of him. I was wondering what it cost. We have nothing like it at home. Of course, if I bought one for the shop, people would talk—'drawing attention,' they'd say, after what has happened. But I thought that Dick, perhaps . . . when he grows up and enters the business . . . perhaps he might propose such a thing, and then I shan't say no. I should carry it off lightly . . . After all, it's the shop it would call attention to . . . not the house. And one must advertise in these days."
She was looking at him steadily now. "Yes," she assented, "people would talk."
"And they pity me. I do hate to be pitied, in that way. Even the people up here, at the old lodgings . . . I won't come to them again. If I thought the children . . . One never can tell how much children know—"
"Don't, Willy!"
He plunged a hand into his pocket. "I daresay, now, you're starving?"
Her arms began to sway again, and she laughed quietly, hideously.
"Don't—don't—don't! I make money. That's the worst. I make money.
Oh, why don't you hit me? Why was you always a soft man?"
For a moment he stood horribly revolted. But his weakness had a better side, and he showed it now.
"I say, Annie . . . is it so bad?"
"It is hell."