Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?”
“Now you’re talking. Reg’lar ha’penny marvel, that’s what you are. Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He spoke with the hauteur of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles Esquire, capitalist, who wasn’t to be beaten at a bargain.
“Well, it’ll probably be in a family.”
“Depends on the family.”
“Then promise me you won’t go out again to-night.”
“Shan’t be able when I’ve polished off this bottle.”
Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he went he said, “It’s my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was for you.”
Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity better in a sitting posture. “Don’t take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and forget—that’s my motto.” He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his fingers.
That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding kitchen company. “I won’t have strange men lolling in my house without my knowledge. That’s how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it’s none of my business to supply ‘em with opportunities for getting married.”
So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with her and helped her. “It’s a burnin’ shime,” she said, “cagin’ us h’up like h’animals. H’it’s a wonder ter me as we h’ever get married. The master thinks that, ‘cause we’re servants, we ain’t got no pashuns.”