Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of someone else.”
The man shook his head.
“Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.”
“Glory!” He showed no animation. “She’s eighteen, isn’t she? No, Glory wouldn’t care. But Jehane, how is she?”
Peter had feared that question. “She’s well.”
The man looked away. “She won’t want to see me. She never loved me. D’you think she’d let me see her, Peter?”
“I’m afraid—afraid she wouldn’t. She’s thinking of Eustace, and Moggs and Riska. But Glory—I’m sure Glory——-”
“Ah, Glory! She’s forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it was always of the children.”
His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry’s words, “It’s always one who allows and one who loves.” Jehane hadn’t even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork.
The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking over it.