"Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can't be separated from the child." "Very likely; the father can, though." "If you talk that snappish I shall never get out what I've to say. I've treated you badly, and it is to make up for the past as far as I can--" "And how do you know that you aren't doing harm by coming after me?" "You mean you're keeping company with a chap and don't want me?" "You don't know I'm not a married woman; you don't know what kind of situation I'm in. You comes after me just because it pleases your fancy, and don't give it a thought that you mightn't get me the sack, as you got it me before." "There's no use nagging; just let's go where we can have a talk, and then if you aren't satisfied you can go your way and I can go mine. You said I didn't know that you wasn't married. I don't, but if you aren't, so much the better. If you are, you've only to say so and I'll take my hook. I've done quite enough harm, without coming between you and your husband." William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently from his heart that Esther was touched against her will. "No, I ain't married yet," she replied. "I'm glad of that." "I don't see what odds it can make to you whether I'm married or not. If I ain't married, you are." William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless--a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of waste ground, William said-- "Let's go in there; we'll be able to talk easier." Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked for a place where they could sit down. "This is just like old times," said William, moving a little closer. "If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I'll get up and go. I only came out with you because you said you had something particular to say about the child." "Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son." "How do you know it's a son?" "I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy--is it?" "Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very different to his father. I've always told him that his father is dead." "And is he sorry?" "Not a bit. I've told him his father wasn't good to me; and he don't care for those who haven't been good to his mother." "I see, you've brought him up to hate me?" "He don't know nothing about you--how should 'e?" "Very likely; but there's no need to be that particular nasty. As I've said before, what's done can't be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and I've been badly treated myself--damned badly treated. You've 'ad a 'ard time; so have I, if that's any comfort to ye." "I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me."