The door opened wider very gently, and Michael looked in.
“That you, missis? You’re wanted. Francey badly, this morning?”
Mrs. Dockeray wiped her eyes hastily and bustled towards him.
“Nay, nowt o’ t’ sort! You get along downstairs, an’ the lass’ll follow. You might have given a body a shout, instead of bursting in as if t’ house was afire!”
At the door she turned.
“You’ve just to say the word!” she urged.
But Francey did not say it.
Denny had begged the honour of driving him to the station, and turned up with the ramper about nine, a small “Jack” at one lamp-bracket, and the “Stars and Stripes” at the other. Lup stayed stolidly on the step until he removed them. The dogs sniffed and whined at the bags as they were lifted into the trap. In the dull light everything took on a deadened effect, utterly dismal and forlorn, from the melancholy house on the edge of the dreary flat to the two worn figures with their set faces and shut hands. At the gate the cowman waited for a last word. Through the window the “girl” peered at the little scene. The dogs leaped at Lup, whimpering and beseeching, refusing to be stilled.
Denny’s efforts to lighten the atmosphere did not go far. His flags had not drawn even a smile; his new tale about Brack died on his lips. In the silent trouble before him even his frothing joy in life sank and drowned.