“I'll lodge with you,” he said, “and I'll give you all my money and things to take care of. I can't run away without money.”
He turned out his pockets on the table. Seven pounds eighteen shillings and fourpence with his return ticket made one heap; his watch and chain, penknife, and a few other accessories another. A suggestion of Jim's that he should add his boots was vetoed by the elder man as unnecessary.
“There you are,” said Mr. Evans, sweeping the things into his own pockets; “and the day you are married I hand them back to you.”
His temper improved as the evening wore on. By the time supper was finished and his pipe alight he became almost jocular, and the coldness of Miss Evans was the only drawback to an otherwise enjoyable evening.
“Just showing off a little temper,” said her father, after she had withdrawn; “and wants to show she ain't going to forgive you too easy. Not but what you behaved badly; however, let bygones be bygones, that's my idea.”
The behavior of Miss Evans was so much better next day that it really seemed as though her father's diagnosis was correct. At dinner, when the men came home from work, she piled Mr. Carter's plate up so generously that her father and brother had ample time at their disposal to watch him eat. And when he put his hand over his glass she poured half a pint of good beer, that other men would have been thankful for, up his sleeve.
She was out all the afternoon, but at tea time she sat next to Mr. Carter, and joined brightly in the conversation concerning her marriage. She addressed him as Bert, and when he furtively pressed her hand beneath the table-cloth she made no attempt to withdraw it.
“I can't think how it was you didn't know him at first,” said her father. “You're usually wide-awake enough.”