“Shall I return when he has finished?” asked Travers with a nice tactfulness. He knew the curious delicacy against being seen eating by one of a superior class, as if that natural function were a deed of shame. But Anne was for short cuts and she never considered Tom’s feelings overmuch. “If you’ve owt to say,” she said, “you’d better come in and get it over.” “I have something to say,” said Travers, entering. “Ah,” he added, as he caught sight of Sam, “this is----?” “It’s him,” Anne interrupted. She might have been identifying a criminal. “May I shake your hand?” he asked, and shook it heartily, ignoring Anne’s muttered protest that the hand had not been washed for hours. “I think you’re a very plucky lad.” He could have, said more than that, and felt that as an expression of his gratitude it was hopelessly inadequate, but Anne’s eyes forbade effusiveness, and he wanted to propitiate Anne. He had something to propose which he had thought they would agree to rapturously, but was not so sure about the rapture now. For some reason, he had imagined that Sam would be one of a large family and was disappointed to find no evidence of other children about the room A large family would have made his proposal more certain of acceptance. “Any brothers and sisters, Sam?” he asked; but Sam was tongue-tied, while Anne was silently but unmistakably asking Travers what business of his that was. However, Tom knew his place. Travers belonged with the tipping public, whose questions one answered. “He has an elder sister, sir. Our Madge. She works out.” She was, in fact, a general servant. Travers felt his confidence ebb fast, both at this information and at Anne’s austere disapprobation of Tom’s communicativeness. He felt it was suggested to him that his visit was irrelevant, that Anne, this small woman, not uncomely, with her hands on her hips, and her black hair tightly combed into a ridiculous knob at the back, was, in fact, a rock, and that the impulses and desires of the two hulking men, Travers and Tom Branstone, would break in ineffectual foam against her adamantine resolution. She glared formidably, hating a “fuss,” judging Travers, who had invaded her home for the purpose of making a fuss. “Indeed,” said Travers, marking time and hardly attempting to conceal his dismay. The longer he spent in Anne’s presence, the more uneasy he became. She seemed to divine his purpose, and to be telling him silently what she thought of him for having such a purpose. He had, indeed, banked on a large family; porters, he had felt certain, were prolific, and you may subtract one child from a family of ten without much heart-burning, whereas an only son is a serious matter. But time brought no graciousness to Anne’s attitude. She even ignored the sacred rites of hospitality; though tea was on the table, she had not asked him to have a cup. So he gave up temporizing and decided to broach his purpose at once, before Anne reduced him to complete incoherence.