"All cripples," I laughed.
She went on sobbing.
"I wonder why you are crying?" I said at length gently.
"Because I don't know where to go at this time of night. It's past eight, and the roads are full of tramps."
"Well, don't go. Your bedroom is surely comfortable. You've always said how much you like the pink roses on the wall-paper."
"I couldn't sleep in the same house as that man who calls himself a gentleman, beggin' your pardon, mum. The same roof shall never cover us again. And to think he's your father—you're flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone."
For a moment I wondered whether she would consent to sleep in the shed with the canoe and Jumbles if we rigged up a hammock. Or could I persuade Peter to return home if I explained how matters stood? But on reflection I knew neither of these things could be. Amelia was still repeating "bone of his bone" in an automatic fashion, when I broke in, "I can't help that, Amelia. I can't help his being my father." Then perhaps I behaved foolishly, unfilially, for I took her into my confidence. But what else was I to do? I am not a diplomatist. I am not a Talleyrand. Amelia must be kept at any price. The thought of mother and Peter struggling to light the kitchen fire on the morrow made me shudder.
"Amelia"——I began.
She took her apron from her eyes, and I became nervous.
"I—I would like some pudding, please, however cold it may be. And—and what are they doing in the other room?"