Farwell brought himself up with a jerk. He was thinking of Victoria too often. As he was a man who faced facts he told himself quite plainly that he did not intend to fall in love with her. He did not feel capable of love; he hated most people, but did not believe that a good hater was a good lover.
'Clever, of course,' he muttered, 'but no woman is everlastingly clever. I won't risk finding her out.'
The shape at his side moved. It was an old man, filthy, clad in blackened rags, with a matted beard. Farwell glanced at him and turned away.
'I'd have you poisoned if I could,' he thought. Then he returned to Victoria. Was she worth educating? And supposing she was educated, what then? She would become discontented, instead of brutalised. The latter was the happier state. Or she would fall in love with him, when he would give her short shrift. What a pity. A tiny wave of sentiment flowed into Farwell's soul.
'Clever, clever,' he thought, 'a little house, babies, roses, a fox terrier.'
'Gov'nor,' croaked a hoarse voice beside him.
Farwell turned quickly. The shape was alive, then, curse it.
'Well, what d'you want?'
'Give us a copper, gov'nor, I'm an old man, can't work. S'elp me, Gawd, gov'nor, 'aven't 'ad a bite. . . .'
'That'll do, you fool,' snarled Farwell, 'why the hell don't you go and get it in gaol?'