She faltered like a girl much younger. “I want you to take me to him.”
That afternoon on the top of a bus they set off to Soho together. What that excursion meant to her, what thoughts tiptoed to and fro inside her head, he never knew. He never guessed how proud she was to be seen alone with him in public. Her thoughts tiptoed for that reason—so that no one might ever guess. They found Uncle Waffles, waxed mustaches and dingy spats, seated in a dingy shop. They had to descend a step to enter. The riot of dirt distressed Glory. She wanted to busy herself with a duster, until her stepfather discouraged her, telling her that it was no use—it would be as bad to-morrow; in fact, in his line of trade, dirt was a kind of advertisement.
Just as they were sitting down to tea, Mr. Widow, the murderer, joined them. They found him a very severe old gentleman, with chop-whiskers and an eye to other people’s imperfections. Prison seemed to have strengthened his moral views. Once he referred to “my poor wife,” in a tone which implied that she had died respectably of bloodpoisoning or cancer.
Before they left, Uncle Waffles took Peter aside and borrowed two-and-sixpence in a whisper. So the tea was quite expensive. Perhaps the ease with which he had contrived to borrow had something to do with the heartiness of his invitation that they should drop in whenever they were passing.
That evening, when Glory came to bid Peter good-night, she asked, “You’ll take me again, won’t you. He’s—I don’t think he’s happy.”
Peter dragged his thoughts away from his work. “Don’t you? Perhaps Mr. Widow isn’t tremendously cheerful company. Of course I’ll take you.”
His eyes were going back to his books. Glory hesitated at the door, saw that he had forgotten her and slipped out. There was a song about a rooted tree and a winged bird; had he looked up at that moment and seen her expression, he might have remembered it.