Mr. Brown looked up from the evening paper as his younger son entered. At first he merely noticed that his younger son looked unusually sheepish. Then he noticed that his son was followed by a tall, thin lady of prim appearance and uncertain age, wearing pince-nez. Mr. Brown groaned inwardly. Had William killed her cat or merely broken one of her windows?
"Er—good evening," he said.
"Good evening," said the visitor. "I have been spending the afternoon with your little boy."
Mr. Brown sent William a speaking glance. He didn't mind what caricatures William picked up outside the house, but he wished he'd keep them there. William refused to meet his father's glance. He sat on the edge of a chair looking rather pale, his cap in his hand, measuring with his eye the distance between the chair and the half-open door.
"Very kind of you," murmured Mr. Brown.
"He has told me something of the state of things in his home," burst out the visitor. "I saw at once that he was unhappy and half-starved."
Mr. Brown's jaw dropped. William very slowly and cautiously tiptoed to the door.
"He told me about you and his mother. I was sure—I am sure—that you don't realise what you are doing—what your—er—failing—means to this innocent child."
Mr. Brown raised a hand to his brow.
"Your conscience, you see," said the visitor triumphantly, "troubles you. Why should the memory of childhood mean to that dear boy blows and curses and unkindness—and just because you are a slave to your baser appetites?"