Scarlett Trent had turned round in his chair, and was eying the pale, nervous figure with a certain hard disapproval.
“That's a beastly coat you've got on, Dickenson,” he said. “Why don't you get a new one?”
“I am standing in a strong light, sir,” the young man answered, with a new fear at his heart. “It wants brushing, too. I will endeavour to get a new one—very shortly.”
His employer grunted again.
“What's your salary?” he asked.
“Two pounds fifteen shillings a week, sir.”
“And you mean to say that you can't dress respectably on that? What do you do with your money, eh? How do you spend it? Drink and music-halls, I suppose!”
The young man was able at last to find some spark of dignity. A pink spot burned upon his cheeks.
“I do not attend music-halls, sir, nor have I touched wine or spirits for years. I—I have a wife to keep, and perhaps—I am expecting—”
He stopped abruptly. How could he mention that other matter which, for all its anxieties, still possessed for him a sort of quickening joy in the face of that brutal stare. He did not conclude his sentence, the momentary light died out of his pale commonplace features. He hung his head and was silent.