Tramps do not demand very much, and these were completely contented when they had made a small fire, damped down with a turf to prevent it smoking, had boiled a little water, stewed some tea, and eaten what they had. Even this was not luxurious. The Major produced the heel of a cheese and two crushed-looking bananas, and Frank a half-eaten tin of sardines and a small, stale loaf. The Major announced presently that he would make a savory; and, indeed, with cheese melted on to the bread, and sardines on the top, he did very well. Gertie moved silently about; and Frank, in the intervals of rather abrupt conversation with the Major, found his eyes following her as she spread out their small possessions, vanished up the stairs and reappeared. Certainly she was very like Jenny, even in odd little details—the line of her eyebrows, the angle of her chin and so forth—perhaps more in these details than in anything else. He began to wonder a little about her—to imagine her past, to forecast her future. It seemed all rather sordid. She disappeared finally without a word: he heard her steps overhead, and then silence.
Then he had to attend to the Major a little more.
"It was easy enough to tell you," said that gentleman.
"How?"
"Oh, well, if nothing else, your clothes."
"Aren't they shabby enough?"
The Major eyed him with half-closed lids, by the light of the single candle-end, stuck in its own wax on the mantelshelf.
"They're shabby enough, but they're the wrong sort. There's the cut, first—though that doesn't settle it. But these are gray flannel trousers, for one thing, and then the coat's not stout enough."
"They might have been given me," said Frank, smiling.