“He’s doing very well, thank you.”
“Oh? Well, it’s more than he deserves.”
He did not argue that. “I wonder,” he said, “if you would allow me to come in, or would you prefer me to return when your husband is at home?”
“He’s at home now. It’s his early night. He’s having his tea.”
“Shall I return when he has finished?” asked Travers with a nice tactfulness. He knew the curious delicacy against being seen eating by one of a superior class, as if that natural function were a deed of shame. But Anne was for short cuts and she never considered Tom’s feelings overmuch.
“If you’ve owt to say,” she said, “you’d better come in and get it over.”
“I have something to say,” said Travers, entering. “Ah,” he added, as he caught sight of Sam, “this is——?”
“It’s him,” Anne interrupted. She might have been identifying a criminal.
“May I shake your hand?” he asked, and shook it heartily, ignoring Anne’s muttered protest that the hand had not been washed for hours. “I think you’re a very plucky lad.” He could have, said more than that, and felt that as an expression of his gratitude it was hopelessly inadequate, but Anne’s eyes forbade effusiveness, and he wanted to propitiate Anne. He had something to propose which he had thought they would agree to rapturously, but was not so sure about the rapture now. For some reason, he had imagined that Sam would be one of a large family and was disappointed to find no evidence of other children about the room A large family would have made his proposal more certain of acceptance.
“Any brothers and sisters, Sam?” he asked; but Sam was tongue-tied, while Anne was silently but unmistakably asking Travers what business of his that was. However, Tom knew his place. Travers belonged with the tipping public, whose questions one answered.