“There is the child to be considered,” she urged—“your child. You see, dear, we all do wrong sometimes. We must not let others suffer for our fault more—more than we can help.”
He turned to her for the first time. “And you?”
“I? Oh, I shall cry for a little while, but later on I shall laugh, as often. Life is not all love. I have my work.”
He knew her well by this time. And also it came to him that it would be a finer thing to be worthy of her than even to possess her.
So he did her bidding and went out with the other woman. Tommy was glad it was press-night. She would not be able to think for hours to come, and then, perhaps, she would be feeling too tired. Work can be very kind.
Were this an artistic story, here, of course, one would write “Finis.” But in the workaday world one never knows the ending till it comes. Had it been otherwise, I doubt I could have found courage to tell you this story of Tommy. It is not all true—at least, I do not suppose so. One drifts unconsciously a little way into dream-land when one sits oneself down to recall the happenings of long ago; while Fancy, with a sly wink, whispers ever and again to Memory: “Let me tell this incident—picture that scene: I can make it so much more interesting than you would.” But Tommy—how can I put it without saying too much: there is someone I think of when I speak of her? To remember only her dear wounds, and not the healing of them, would have been a task too painful. I love to dwell on their next meeting. Flipp, passing him on the steps, did not know him, the tall, sunburnt gentleman with the sweet, grave-faced little girl.
“Seen that face somewhere before,” mused Flipp, as at the corner of Bedford Street he climbed into a hansom, “seen it somewhere on a thinner man.”
For Dick Danvers, that he did not recognise Flipp, there was more excuse. A very old young man had Flipp become at thirty. Flipp no longer enjoyed popular journalism. He produced it.
The gold-bound doorkeeper feared the mighty Clodd would be unable to see so insignificant an atom as an unappointed stranger, but would let the card of Mr. Richard Danvers plead for itself. To the gold-bound keeper’s surprise came down the message that Mr. Danvers was to be at once shown up.
“I thought, somehow, you would come to me first,” said the portly Clodd, advancing with out-stretched hand. “And this is—?”