‘You always had a head for argument, Clara,’ he replied coolly. ‘But I can’t get over that dream of mine. Really a queer thing, wasn’t it? Who’d have thought of you turning barmaid? With your education, I should have thought you could have done something in the teaching line. Never mind. The queerest thing of all is that I’m really half glad to see you. How’s Jack?’
The extraordinary conversation went on as they walked towards the street where Clara lived. It was in a poor part of Westminster. Reaching the house, Clara opened the door with a latchkey.
Two women were standing in the passage.
‘This is my husband, Mrs. Rook,’ Clara said to one of them. ‘He’s just got back from abroad.’
‘Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,’ said the landlady, scrutinising him with unmistakable suspicion.
The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson—she had always used the name she received in marriage—opened a door which disclosed a dark bedroom. A voice came from within—the voice of a little lad of eight years old.
‘That you, mother? Why, I’ve only just put myself to bed. What time is it?’
‘Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,’ replied his mother whilst she was striking a light.
It was a very small room, but decent. The boy was discovered sitting up in bed—a bright-faced little fellow with black hair. Clara closed the door, then turned and looked at her husband. The light made a glistening appearance on her eyes; she had become silent, allowing facts to speak for themselves.
The child stared at the stranger in astonishment.