She too had risen. He thrust his fingers through his hair. The girl’s face, tear-streaked, confusedly pretty, had come up before him, her soft common grateful voice tickled his ears again. His wife turned her back. So! he was in for a fit of sulks. Well! No doubt he had deserved it. “I dare say I _was_ a fool,” he muttered, “but I did think you’d understand how I felt when I saw her cry. Suppose it had been you!” From the toss of her head, he knew he had said something pretty fatal. “Oh! So that’s what you think of me!” He grasped her shoulder. “Of course I don’t, Alice; don’t be so silly!” She shook off his hand. “Whose money was it? Now baby and me’ll get no holiday. And all because you see a slut crying.” Before he could answer she was gone. He had an awful sense of having outraged justice. Given away her holiday--given his wife’s holiday to a girl of the streets! Still, it was his own holiday, too; besides, he earned the money! He’d never wanted to give it to the girl; hadn’t got anything for it! Suppose he’d put it into the offertory bag, would Alice have been in such a temper even if it was their holiday? He didn’t see much difference. He sat down with knees apart, and elbows planted on them, staring at the peonies on the Brussels carpet paid for on the hire system. And all those feelings that rise in people living together, when they don’t agree, swirled in his curly head, and troubled his candid eyes. If only the girl hadn’t cried! She hadn’t meant to cry; he could tell that by the sound of it. And who was the magistrate--he didn’t look too like a saint; who was any man to treat her like that? Alice oughtn’t--No! But suddenly, he saw Alice again bending over his socks--pale and tired with the heat--doing things for him or baby--and he had given away her holiday! No denying that! Compunction flooded him. He must go up and find her and try and make his peace--he would pawn his bicycle--she should have her holiday--she should! He opened the door and listened. The little house was ominously quiet--only the outside evening sounds from buses passing in the main road, from children playing on the doorsteps of the side street, from a man with a barrow of bananas. She must be up in the bedroom with baby! He mounted the steep whitewashed stairway. It wanted a carpet, and fresh paint; ah! and a lot of other things Alice wanted--you couldn’t have everything at once on four pound ten a week--with the price of living what it was. But she ought to have remembered there were things he wanted too--yes, precious bad, and never thought of getting. The door of their bedroom was locked; he rattled the handle. She opened suddenly, and stood facing him on the little landing. “I don’t want you up here.” “Look here, Alice--this is rotten.” She closed the door behind her. “It is! You go down again, I don’t want you. Think I believe that about crying? I’d be ashamed, if I were you!” Ashamed! He might have been too soft, but why ashamed?