He looked at me with such earnest appeal that I saw that the saving of his wife's pride was a serious matter.
“Of course,” said I, “and here's a few ha'pence to add to it, so as to give colour to the story.”
He saw that I understood. “Thank you kindly, sir,” said he.
“Tell me,” said I, “do you love your wife?”
He gaped at me for a moment; obviously the question had never been put to him either by himself or anybody else. Then, seeing that my interest was genuine, he spat and scratched his head.
“We've been together twenty years,” he said, in a low voice, emotion struggling with self-consciousness, “and I've 'ad nothing agin her all that time. She's a bloomin' wonder, I tell you straight.”
I held out my hand. “At any rate, you've got what I haven't,” said I. “A woman who loves you to welcome you home.”
And I went away, longing, longing for Lola's arms and the deep love in her voice.
Now that I come to view my actions in some sort of perspective, it seems to me that it was the underlying poignancy of this trumpery incident—a poignancy which, nevertheless, bit deep into my soul, that finally determined the current of my life.
A short while afterwards, Campion, who for some time past had found the organisation of Barbara's Building had far outgrown his individual power of control, came to me with a proposal that I should undertake the management of the institution under his general directorship. As he knew of my financial affairs and of my praiseworthy but futile efforts to live on two hundred a year, he offered me another two hundred by way of salary and quarters in the Building. I accepted, moved the salvage of my belongings from Victoria Street to Lambeth, and settled down to the work for which a mirth-loving Providence had destined me from my cradle.