“Glad to see you, my dear,” said he. “Glad to see you looking so well.”
She sat down. They had tea, and when they had done Francis intimated that he wished to speak to Annie alone. Mrs. Entwistle took down a yoke from the wall and went off to fetch water from the well. Francis hugged his knee and read several times over a text which ran: “Beloved now are we, the sons of God.” It was so illuminated that it was difficult to read: we looked like me, and sons like guns. Then he asked if he might smoke.
“Surely,” said Annie.
Francis lit his pipe and the tobacco tasted very good.
“You have been happy here,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Very happy.”
“I’ve brought you your ten shillings.”
“Thank you.”
He gave her the coin and she put it in a little purse. Francis found himself at a standstill. He forced himself to speak. He was alarmed at the quiescence of his conscience under the influence of Mrs. Entwistle and the garden and the radiant thankfulness in Annie’s face. Her gratitude to him made it very difficult for him to perform what he conceived to be his duty. A humorous gleam shot through his brain, and he began to think himself a little absurd; but he pricked his conscience and it stifled the gleam. He looked very serious as he said:
“I suppose—I hope you realise that you have no right to be happy. You are bringing a child into the world in sin . . .”