When I took leave of the Widgers, there was the question of payment for my board and lodging. We were just finishing breakfast; the children had been driven out, Mrs Widger was resting awhile, and the table, the whole kitchen, was in extreme disorder. I asked Mrs Widger what I owed, and, as I had expected, she replied only: "What you'm minded to pay." "Three and six a day," I suggested. "Not so much as that," said Mrs Widger. "'Tisn't like as if us could du for 'ee like a proper lodging house." "Don' 'ee think, Missis," said Tony, "as we might ask 'en jest to make hisself welcome." It was out of the question, of course. The mackerel season has been so bad. Mrs Widger shot at Tony a look he failed to see. Otherwise, she did not let herself appear to have heard him. The discussion hung. "Say three shillings, then," I suggested again. "That 'll du," returned Mrs Widger, allowing nothing of the last few minutes' brain-work to show itself in her voice. [Sidenote: _HOTEL LIFE_] Mrs Widger knows what it is to have to keep house and feed several hungry children on earnings which vary from fairly large sums (sums whose very largeness calls for immediate spending) to nothing at all for weeks together. As I was setting out, Jimmy said to his mother: "Don' 'ee let Mister Ronals go, Mam 'Idger." He followed me to the end of the Gut; would have come farther had I not sent him back. That, and Tony's desire to make me welcome, brightened the bright South Devon sunshine. I kept within sight of the sea as long as possible. The little sailing boats on it looked so nimble. I have a leaning to go back, a sort of hunger.... 2 [Sidenote: _DAWDLING v. WALKING_]