As for Lily, she tripped down the stairs to the stage, for a few seconds contemplated all those bill-toppers at her feet, so to speak; but she took the last stairs at a bound: Trampy had just entered! Ave Maria, in her corner, behind the pillars and the confused heap of scenery, could not see him. Lily preferred that. She would manage everything her own way and get rid of him once and for all ... get rid of that footy rotter who had come there to jeer at her. He stepped along, with his hat on one side and a dead cigar between his teeth. Trampy, broken, diseased, done for, was jubilant for all that; turned his broad smile from girl to girl, winked his eye gaily at the Roofers, who drew back in disgust, and, with outstretched hand:
“How d’you do, Lily? How’s my dear little wife?”
He enjoyed the humiliation which he was inflicting upon her, would have liked his clothes to be still shabbier, his shoes more down at heel, so that he might thoroughly disgrace his dear little wife—that great bill-topper, who was leaving the pink of husbands in such a state of destitution. And he threw out his chest, increased his familiarities, and even pretended to kiss her, pushed his blotched and pimpled mug close to that charming face. Jimmy gave a bound: Trampy! On the stage! Lily’s tormentor! Jimmy, pale with fury, walked up to him, stiff-armed, ready to break the jaw of that thief in the night and chuck him into the street, without more words! But Lily stopped him with a quick gesture:
“Why, Jimmy,” she said, “would you keep a man from earning his living? Do you find fault with a husband for loving his little wife? I am your little wife, am I not?” she continued, tantalizing Trampy with her peach-like cheek, tickling his nose with her fair curls. “Don’t you deserve a dear little wife?”
“Why, of course I do!” Trampy agreed, surprised, all the same, at this loving reception from his dear little wife.
“There!” cried Lily, unable to restrain herself any longer and giving him a box on the ears. “That’ll teach you to call me your little wife, you damned tramp cyclist! I’ve never been your little wife. I’ll show you your little wife, the real one. Come along, Ave Maria! Here’s Trampy!”
“Eh, what?” said Trampy, turning color. “Ave Maria? I don’t know any Ave Maria.”
But already Ave Maria was upon him, pressing him in her arms: her Trampy! And her cough brought pink-red patches to her hectic cheeks.
“What’s this mean? I don’t know you,” he stammered, gazing horror-stricken at this old, lean woman, who was taking possession of him before everybody, taking possession of him who cared only for plump little things, sultan that he was. “I don’t know her, I don’t know her!”
“Here!” cried Lily, snatching the paper from Ave Maria’s bodice. “Do you know that? Can you read? Now will you deny that she’s your wife ... your wife ... your wife?” she repeated, rejoicing in being able to hurl the word to Trampy, who turned pale with fright.