“But it couldn’t have been you.”

“Of course it couldn’t,” said the miserable Spinks with a weak spurt of anger; “that was only my way of putting it.”

“What are you driving at?  What ever did you think I said?”

“Never mind what you said.  You’re making me talk about it, and I said I wouldn’t.”

“When did you say that?”

“Ages ago—­when Rickets first told me you—­and he—­”

“Oh that?  That was so long ago that it doesn’t matter much now.”

“Oh, doesn’t it though, it matters a jolly sight more.  You said” (there was bitterness in his tone), “you said it couldn’t have been me.  As if I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t mean it couldn’t have been you, not in that way.  I only meant that you’d have—­well, you’d have behaved very differently, if it had been you; and so I believe you would.”

“You don’t know how I’d ’ave behaved.”

“I’ve a pretty good idea, though.”  She looked straight at him this time, and he grew strangely brave.

“Look here, Flossie,” he said solemnly, “you know—­as I’ve just let it out—­that I’m most orf’ly gone on you.  I don’t suppose there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you except—­well, I really don’t know what you’re driving at, but if it’s anything to do with Razors, I’d rather not hear about it, if you don’t mind.  It isn’t fair, really.  You see, it’s putting me in such a ’orribly delicate position.”

“I don’t think you’re very kind, Sidney.  You don’t think of me, or what sort of a position you put me in.  I’m sure I wouldn’t have said a word, only you asked me to tell you all about it; you needn’t say you didn’t.”

“That was when I thought, p’raps, I could help you to patch it up.  But if I can’t, it’s another matter.”

“Patch it up?  Do you think I’d let you try?  I don’t believe in patching things up, once they’re—­broken off.”

“I say Flossie, it hasn’t come to that?”

“It couldn’t come to anything else, the way it was going.”

“Oh Lord”—­Spinks buried a crimson face in his hands.  If only he hadn’t felt such a horrible exultation!

“I thought you knew.  Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about all the time?”

“I didn’t understand.  I only thought—­he didn’t tell me, mind you—­I thought it was just put off because he couldn’t afford to marry quite so soon.”

“Don’t you think three hundred a year is enough to marry on?”

“Well, I shouldn’t care to marry on that myself; not if it wasn’t regular.  He’s quite right, Flossie.  You see, a man hasn’t got only his wife to think of.”

“No—­I suppose he must think of himself a little too.”

“Oh well, no; if he’s a decent chap, he thinks of his children.”

Flossie’s face was crimson, too, while her thoughts flew to that unfurnished room in the brown house at Ealing.  She was losing sight of Keith Rickman; for behind Keith Rickman there was Sidney Spinks; and behind Sidney Spinks there was the indomitable Dream.  She did not look at Spinks, therefore, but gazed steadily at the top of Mr. Partridge’s head.  With one word Spinks had destroyed the effect he had calculated on from his honourable reticence.  Perhaps it was because Flossie’s thoughts had flown so far that her voice seemed to come from somewhere a long way off, too.