He stood still on the narrow pavement, pondering, and then, in excuse of his flagrant misbehaviour, murmured, "It was meant to be," and went by again. This time he fancied that he detected a somewhat supercilious expression in the dark eyes—a faint raising of well-arched eyebrows.
His engagement to wait at Aldgate Station for the second-engineer and spend an evening together was dismissed as too slow to be considered. He stood for some time in uncertainty, and then turning slowly into the Beehive, which stood at the corner, went into the private bar and ordered a glass of beer.
He was the only person in the bar, and the land-lord, a stout man in his shirt-sleeves, was the soul of affability. Mr. Catesby, after various general remarks, made a few inquiries about an uncle aged five minutes, whom he thought was living in Bashford's Lane.
"I don't know 'im," said the landlord.
"I had an idea that he lived at No. 5," said Catesby.
The landlord shook his head. "That's Mrs. Truefitt's house," he said, slowly.
Mr. Catesby pondered. "Truefitt, Truefitt," he repeated; "what sort of a woman is she?"
"Widder-woman," said the landlord; "she lives there with 'er daughter Prudence."