He told the benevolent commissionaire, one of two in a pulpit in the crowded grim hall, that he was going up to see General Hogarth in a minute or two. But not to send a bell-boy. He might be some time yet.
He sat himself beside Miss Wannop, clumsily on a wooden bench, humanity serging over their toes as if they had been on a beach. She moved a little to make room for him and that, too, made him feel good. He said:
"You said just now: 'we' are hard up. Does 'we' mean you and Christopher?"
She said:
"I and Mr. Tietjens. Oh, no! I and mother! The paper she used to write for stopped. When your father died, I believe. He found money for it, I think. And mother isn't suited to free-lancing. She's worked too hard in her life."
He looked at her, his round eyes protruding.
"I don't know what that is, free-lancing," he said. "But you've got to be comfortable. How much do you and your mother need to keep you comfortable? And put in a bit more so that Christopher could have a mutton-chop now and then!"
She hadn't really been listening. He said with some insistence: "Look here! I'm here on business. Not like an elderly admirer forcing himself on you. Though, by God, I do admire you too. . . . But my father wanted your mother to be comfortable. . . ."
Her face, turned to him, became rigid.
"You don't mean . . ." she began. He said: