“So this is Uncle Waffles! So this is Uncle Waffles!” Peter kept saying to himself. His thoughts searched back, trying to trace a resemblance between the irrepressible, joking companion of his childhood and this mutilated scrap of humanity. The low-pitched voice crawled on like the sound of dragging footsteps. “I couldn't have done anything bad enough to deserve that. If I'd only known that someone outside was caring. There were no letters, no--no anything. Just to get up in the morning and to work, and then to go back to bed. Sundays were the worst--there wasn't any work.--And then they opened the gates and shoved me out. I couldn't think of anyone but you, Peter.” Peter made an attempt to cheer him. “You could have thought of someone else.” The man shook his head. “Oh, yes, but you could. There was Glory.” “Glory!” He showed no animation. “She's eighteen, isn't she? No, Glory wouldn't care. But Jehane, how is she?” Peter had feared that question. “She's well.” The man looked away. “She won't want to see me. She never loved me. D'you think she'd let me see her, Peter?” “I'm afraid--afraid she wouldn't. She's thinking of Eustace, and Moggs and Riska. But Glory--I'm sure Glory-----” “Ah, Glory! She's forgotten me. And Jehane, she never thought of me; it was always of the children.” His voice fell slack with utter hopelessness. Peter remembered Cherry's words, “It's always one who allows and one who loves.” Jehane hadn't even allowed; the ruin at his side was her handiwork. The hansom halted. Hampstead Heath was all about them, falling away in gorse and bracken and yellow earth. A little farther on was the Flagstaff Pond. Toy yachts were scudding across it; excited boys ran round its edges to retrim their sails and send their craft on fresh adventures. A dog jumped into the water, barking; they could see his head bobbing as he swam. To their left, between the trees of the Vale of Heath, London lay like a sunken rock with the surf of smoke breaking over it. The cabby spoke, “Look 'ere, young gentleman, my 'orse is tired. H'I've got to be gettin' back. 'Ow abart a rest at The Spaniards?” They returned over the way they had come. The tall firs of the Seven Sisters stood up black and weather-beaten before them. In the yard of The Spaniards they stepped out. The cabby climbed down and began to unharness. Behind his hand he said to Peter, “Rum old party you've got there, mister.” And then, glancing up at the labels on the bag, “Been to 'Enley, 'av'n't yer? 'Ad luck?” At the bar Peter ordered supper in a private room. He noticed that, when they had sat down, his uncle still kept his hat on. When he reminded him of it his uncle glanced at the door furtively and whispered, “Daren't take it off. They may guess.”