He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling fibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his shoulders.
“When all’s said and done,” he reflected, “she hasn’t had much chance.”
It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South London seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in the weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ in the distance.
“I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?” she asked him, with a wistful expression.
“I ought, but I don’t know that I must. Why, d’you want me to do anything else?”
“I’d like to go out for a bit. Couldn’t we take a ride on the top of a tram?”
“If you like.”
“I’ll just go and put on my hat,” she said joyfully.
The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she came back with her hat on. She had taken the opportunity to put on a little rouge. Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. She laughed when she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going towards Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and they looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit, and people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:
“Oh, Philip, do let’s go there. I haven’t been to a music-hall for months.”