It came, as he had half expected, at the end of the week, when the next payment for his lodging was due. Instead of his usual fourteen shillings he gave Mary the whole of his wages wrapped up in the piece of paper in which he received them at the works. The situation embarrassed her, as she told him, for she had no change.
‘I don’t want none,’ he said bluntly.
‘But I can’t take it from you,’ she protested. ‘It isn’t right.’
‘Right or wrong,’ said he, ‘you and the children can’t live on less, and you’ll find it a tight pinch as it is.’
‘I can’t take it,’ she said again.
They stood on either side of the table with the packet of money between them.
‘It isn’t only that,’ she added. ‘Don’t suppose I think the less of your kindness. . . . I wish I could tell you what I do think . . . but I’m afraid it isn’t right for you to stay on here now George is away.’
‘That’s why I ought to stay,’ he said.
‘You don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘Men don’t think of such things. It would be the talk of the village. They’d say there was something wrong.’
‘As long as there bain’t nothing wrong there’s no harm in talk. Talk never hurt nobody.’