“But he should ought to treat you proper, all the same,” said Joanna.

She felt sorry and angry, and also, in some vague way, that it was her part to set matters right—­that the wound in her love would be healed if she could act where Bertie was remiss.  But Mrs. Hill would not let her open her fat purse on her account.  “No, dear; we never let a friend oblige us.”  Joanna, who was not tactful, persisted, and the old lady became very frozen and genteel.

Bertie’s hours were not long at the office.  He was generally back at six, and took Joanna out—­up to town, where they had dinner and then went on to some theatre or picture-palace, the costs of the expedition being defrayed out of her own pocket.  She had never had so much dissipation in her life—­she saw “The Merry Widow,” “A Persian Princess,” and all the musical comedies.  Albert did not patronise the more serious drama, and for Joanna the British stage became synonymous with fluffy heads and whirling legs and jokes she could not understand.  The late hours made her feel very tired, and on their way home Albert would find her sleepy and unresponsive.  They always went by taxi from Lewisham station, and instead of taking the passionate opportunities of the darkness, she would sink her heavy head against his breast, holding his arm with both her tired hands.  “Let me be, dear, let me be,” she would murmur when he tried to rouse her—­“this is what I love best.”

She told herself that it was because she was so tired that she often felt depressed and wakeful at nights.  Raymond Avenue was not noisy, indeed it was nearly as quiet as Ansdore, but on some nights Joanna lay awake from Bertie’s last kiss till the crashing entrance of the Girl to pull up her blinds in the morning.  At nights, sometimes, a terrible clearness came to her.  This visit to her lover’s house was showing her more of his character than she had learned in all the rest of their acquaintance.  She could not bear to realize that he was selfish and small-minded, though, now she came to think of it, she had always been aware of it in some degree.  She had never pretended to herself that he was good and noble—­she had loved him for something quite different—­because he was young and had brought her back her own youth, because he had a handsome face and soft, dark eyes, because in spite of all his cheek and knowingness he had in her sight a queer, appealing innocence....  He was like a child, even if it was a spoilt, selfish child.  When she held his dark head in the crook of her arm, he was her child, her little boy....  And perhaps one day she would hold, through her love for him, a real child there, a child who was really innocent and helpless and weak—­a child without grossness to scare her or hardness to wound her—­her own child, born of her own body.