Christopher sat in the armchair, and Mrs. Sartin, having plumped the baby into its chair, sat down by the door. The small Jimmy pulled at her apron. Jessie leant against the wall and giggled. No one said anything. Christopher began to wish he had not come.
“I never could remember the name of this place,” he began at last, desperately. “I just came on it by accident to-day, and remembered everything all at once.”
“Shilla Buildings, that’s what it’s called,” said Mrs. Sartin nodding her head. “Block 7, C. Door.”
Silence again. A strict sense of etiquette prevented either of the feminine side of the company from uttering the question burning on their tongues.
“I did see Sam once, a long time ago,” Christopher struggled on, “but I could not catch him.” He got red and embarrassed again.
“’Ows your Ma?” asked Mrs. Sartin at last.
“She’s dead,” explained Christopher very gravely, “five years ago now—more.”
“Lor’. To think of it. I never thought she was one to live long. And she went back to her friends after all, I suppose.”
It was not a question: it was only a statement to be confirmed or contradicted or ignored as the hearer liked.
“She died in the Union at Whitmansworth,” said Christopher bluntly. “I lived there afterwards and then someone adopted me. Mr. Aymer Aston, son of Mr. Aston. Perhaps you know the name.”