So they went on gently sparring, both clinging to their separate idylls of the future. They came out of the park into the streets of little shops and small houses like their own, and stopped presently at the German delicatessen store, where they argued as to what they should have for supper, ham or liver sausage. They compromised, and decided on both, with little Swiss cheeses and honey-cakes.
As they came out into Hog Lane West they were accosted by a man who asked René if he could tell him where Hog Lane West was, and which way he should turn to find 166.
“That’s my house,” said René.
The stranger moved closer to him and had a long look at him. René felt a tug at his arm, and turned to find his mother trembling against him.
“René! René! it’s your father!”
“Is it you, Essie?” said the stranger, and he removed his hat.
“You—you—— I’m afraid,” said René chokingly, “I’m afraid you’ll find the door shut against you. I’ve—I’ve often thought what I should do if I set eyes on you again. That’s what I shall do. I can’t let you come.”
“Essie,” the stranger turned to Mrs. Fourmy, “I’m dead broke.”
“You must come and tell us, but you mustn’t stay. We’ve been out, René and I. We’ve got supper.”
Her voice thinned away. She could speak no more. Her hand pressed René to move on, and they set out toward their house with the man following. René held the garden gate open, and stayed for a moment fumbling for his key. When he found it, his father and mother were standing silhouetted against the glass panel of the door. He let them in, and, obeying an obscure instinct that stirred in him, went upstairs to leave them alone together. Not for long. He found that in his confusion he had taken the viands with him. He gained a few moments in the kitchen preparing a tray (Polly was out for the evening and not yet returned), and then, with the dishes clattering as he walked, he rejoined them in the dining-room.