Half an hour later he was laughing, as they all three sat at their simple supper, as light-hearted as if there had never been such a scene. When a man is forgiven he may as well behave accordingly. Only, when he lifted his glass of water to his lips he gasped—it was a craving for something stronger than water which tightened his throat like hydrophobia. But it passed; he drank the water and set down the glass with a nod.
“Good water, that,” he said. “Nothing like water. Mean to stick to water in future—water and tea. Lily, I’ve made up my mind. For the next six months I shall give up speaking, though it’s against my interests. Shorthand and French in the evening. By that time I shall get a post worth a hundred—ay, a hundred and twenty—pounds a year, if I’m lucky, and we’ll get married and all live together and be as happy as the day is long. You shall never repent your wedding-day, my dear. I shall keep you like a lady. Oh, we will have a splendid time.”
At ten o’clock Lily rose to go home. He sprang to his feet and took his hat and went.
“No, no,” he said. “Let you go alone? Not if I know it.”
She laid her hand on his arm once more, and tried to believe that his promise would be kept this time. He led her home, head in air, gallant and brave. At the door he kissed her. “Good-night, my dear,” he said. “You know you can trust me. Haven’t I promised?”
On the way home he passed a public-house. The craving came back to him, and the tightness of his throat and the yearning of his heart; his footsteps were drawn and dragged toward the door.
At eleven o’clock his mother, who was waiting up for him, heard him bumping and tumbling about the stairs on his way up. He came in—his eyes fishy, his voice thick. “Saw her home,” he said. “Good girl, Lily. Made—(hic)—faithful promise—we are going to have—splendid time!”