Simon Quarle got to his feet, and stood for a moment thoughtfully scratching his chin. "I suppose," he said at last slowly, without looking at Byfield—"I suppose that if the child ever came into your life again you'd make the same muddles—and do the same foolish things you did before—wouldn't you? Don't frown; I'm an old man, and I was very fond of the girl. I only ask because one likes to know the point of view of other people. You're never likely to see her again, you know—so that you needn't answer if you don't want to."
"If I ever found her—and she ever forgave me—I should tell her simply and truly what I told her before—that I love her," said Gilbert. "If she'd let me I'd work for her with a better heart than I can ever work for myself only. Because I tell you," he finished simply—"there's no other woman like her in all the world."
"Amen to that!" said Quarle, moving to the door. "But you're a bit late; you're not likely to see her again, you know."
Simon Quarle, with a final nod, went out of the room, closing the door behind him. He went thoughtfully down to his own quarters, and for a long time paced about there, as though he had some problem in his mind difficult of solution. More than once he stopped in his restless walk, with his eyes upon the ground; more than once he shook his head, as though he felt that the way to solve the problem had not been found yet. And at last sat down in his shabby arm-chair, with his hands clasped on his knees, to think it out afresh.
The lamplighter had drifted in from the bigger world outside, and had lit the lamps in Arcadia Street—performing that duty in a casual perfunctory manner, as though it didn't matter very much whether Arcadia Street was lighted or not. The Arcadia Arms was doing a great trade, with its doors swinging and banging every minute or two, and the roar of the greater world outside Arcadia Street had not yet finished for the day. Out from that greater world there drifted into Arcadia Street a little figure that came with lagging feet—a little figure that had come into Arcadia Street many many times through the years that had once, as it seemed, been happily left behind. A shabbier figure even than of old, although as neat as ever; a white-faced girl, carrying bundles and parcels. She stopped at the door of that house that had so recently swallowed up a new lodger, and let herself in with a key.
"Sich goin's on since you went out," said Mrs. Laws, nodding her head solemnly at the girl. "Cabs arrivin'—an' things bein' took upstairs—bags an' boxes, an' bundles an' things; an' as nice a young man as ever I set my two eyes on—though shy. An' goodness knows in these 'ard times a extra lodger is a puffeck gift of Providence."
"I hope he won't be unreasonable," said the girl, with a little sigh. "Some of them have such a way of ringing bells for no particular reason—and one gets so tired sometimes. But I'm glad—for your sake, Mrs. Laws."
Simon Quarle had been on the look out; he bent over the stair head, and called in a hoarse whisper—
"Bessie!—Bessie!"
She looked up at him with a smile, and climbed the stairs; she thought, as she looked at him, that he seemed strangely excited. He held her hand for a moment as they stood together on the landing, and he patted it softly, and seemed almost (although that, of course, was absurd) to be chuckling. He drew her into his room, and closed the door.