"No, father dear," she said; "and I'm sure I always wish you to enjoy yourself. But you'll come home soon, won't you?"
"What do you call 'soon,' my lass?"
"Before ten o'clock. My day's work will be all over long before that, and I'll try and get something nice for your supper."
"Very well, then, I'll be back by ten o'clock to-night. There's my hand upon it."
He gave Margaret his hand, kissed her smooth cheeks, took his cane from a corner of the room, and then went out.
His daughter watched him from the open window as he walked up the narrow lane, amongst the groups of children gathered every here and there upon the dusty pathway.
"Heaven have pity upon him, and keep him from sin!" murmured Margaret Wentworth, clasping her hands, and with her eyes still following the retreating figure.
James Wentworth jingled the money in his waistcoat-pocket as he walked towards the railway station. He had very little; a couple of sixpences and a few halfpence. Just about enough to pay for a second-class return ticket, and for his glass of gin-and-water at a London tavern.
He reached the station three minutes before the train was due, and took his ticket.
At half-past three he was in London.