William, in Mr. Clive's clothes, would have made his fortune on a music-hall stage. Strong men would have wept tears at the sight, but Joan's loyalty was such that only affectionate concern was in the glance she turned on him. William's face was set and determined. He thought that the end of his troubles was in sight, as he rolled the table-cloth into a ball and put it beneath his arm.
"They—they may be able to track us if we leave it here," he whispered. "'Sides, someone's stole my clothes an' I'm jolly well goin' to steal someone's table-cloth."
The curious couple walked down the road. Joan kept throwing little anxious glances at her companion. He certainly looked very queer. She hadn't realised that the suit would be quite so much too big. So far they had not passed a house. Now they were passing a roadside cottage.
A man came out of the cottage and stared at William open-mouthed. Then he leant against the wall, put his hands to his sides and emitted guffaw on guffaw. William merely threw him a murderous glance and proceeded on his way with as much dignity as his trousers allowed him.
"Missus?" called the man, wiping his eyes.
A woman came out, saw William, gave a piercing scream of mirth, and leant helplessly against the wall with the man. Two small children followed and joined in the shrieks of merriment that to William seemed to fill the entire world. Joan put her hand to that part of the long sleeve where she judged William's hand might be, and gave a sympathetic squeeze. Yet even Joan's heart sank at the thought of the journey through the village that lay before them.
The next house they had to pass was the house where Joan lived. To her consternation, Joan saw a figure in a black dress and white apron at the gate. It was too late to turn to flee.
"Well, I never, Miss Joan. Your mother says you're to come in at once. She's in a terrible state over you—where 'ave you been?"
"I must go home with William," pleaded Joan.
"That you must not," said the housemaid, taking her hand. "Your mother said I was to find you and tell you to come in immediate. You've 'ad no tea nor nothin'. As for you," she turned a devastatingly scornful eye upon William, "dressin' up an' thinkin' you're so funny—well, you won't get me laughin' at you—you oughter be ashamed of yourself."