‘Abner,’ she said, ‘if ever you want to go from here for any reason, no matter what it is, promise me that you’ll tell me straight. Don’t you keep it hidden like that, feeling that the children and me are a drag on you! If you want to go to-morrow, you go. Don’t you think of what you said to George. You don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe me anything at all. If ever you feel for one minute you want to go, please tell me straight. I can look after myself, and I shall understand. That’s what I felt with George. Promise me. . .’ She leaned toward him with clasped, beseeching hands. ‘I’ll tell you right enough,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Don’t you fret yourself about that.’ She sighed, and pushed her hair back from her forehead. ‘Now I feel easier,’ she said. ‘How late it is!’ She wished him good-night, and left him; but he did not move till the logs collapsed in the grate. He was thinking drowsily of the other Christmas in Halesby, of the different way in which Alice had approached him, how she had tried to draw him nearer to her and how he had resisted her. He thought of the clinging dependence of Alice contrasted with the strength and independence of this other woman. Poor Alice! She had never answered his letter or acknowledged his postal order; but then, she was never one for letter-writing. The suggestion of freedom, the open way of escape which Mary, in her pride, had shown him, made him feel for a moment curious about that other life that had seemed so far away. If he wanted to do so, he reflected, he could throw up his job at a week’s notice and take a train that would transport him in half a day back to North Bromwich, back to the familiar smoke-pale sky, to the chimney stacks, the furnaces and the smell of pit mounds. The odour of coal-dust and slag-heaps was in his nostrils. He saw the packed amphitheatre of the Albion ground and the white-lined turf within it. He heard the rumour of a football crowd, the thud of the ball, the referee’s whistle. So utterly remote. . . . He went to the door and opened it before he turned the key in its wards. He saw nothing but the high blackness of the winter night, not even a single star. The dank air chilled him; it crept into the lighted room. ‘It’s a rum go . . . a bloody rum go!’ he said, yawning.