Hilary’s tall thin figure appearing in the open doorway of the top-floor front, his kind and worried face, and the pale agate eyes of the little bulldog peeping through his legs, were witnessed by nothing but a baby, who was sitting in a wooden box in the centre of the room.  This baby, who was very like a piece of putty to which Nature had by some accident fitted two movable black eyes, was clothed in a woman’s knitted undervest, spreading beyond his feet and hands, so that nothing but his head was visible.  This vest divided him from the wooden shavings on which he sat, and, since he had not yet attained the art of rising to his feet, the box divided him from contacts of all other kinds.  As completely isolated from his kingdom as a Czar of all the Russias, he was doing nothing.  In this realm there was a dingy bed, two chairs, and a washstand, with one lame leg, supported by an aged footstool.  Clothes and garments were hanging on nails, pans lay about the hearth, a sewing-machine stood on a bare deal table.  Over the bed was hung an oleograph, from a Christmas supplement, of the birth of Jesus, and above it a bayonet, under which was printed in an illiterate hand on a rough scroll of paper:  “Gave three of em what for at Elandslaagte.  S. Hughs.”  Some photographs adorned the walls, and two drooping ferns stood on the window-ledge.  The room withal had a sort of desperate tidiness; in a large cupboard, slightly open, could be seen stowed all that must not see the light of day.  The window of the baby’s kingdom was tightly closed; the scent was the scent of walls and washing and red herrings, and—­of other things.

Hilary looked at the baby, and the baby looked at him.  The eyes of that tiny scrap of grey humanity seemed saying: 

‘You are not my mother, I believe?’

He stooped down and touched its cheek.  The baby blinked its black eyes once.

‘No,’ it seemed, to say again, ‘you are not my mother.’

A lump rose in Hilary’s throat; he turned and went downstairs.  Pausing outside the little model’s door, he knocked, and, receiving no answer, turned the handle.  The little square room was empty; it was neat and clean enough, with a pink-flowered paper of comparatively modern date.  Through its open window could be seen a pear-tree in full bloom.  Hilary shut the door again with care, ashamed of having opened it.

On the half-landing, staring up at him with black eyes like the baby’s, was a man of medium height and active build, whose short face, with broad cheekbones, cropped dark hair, straight nose, and little black moustache, was burnt a dark dun colour.  He was dressed in the uniform of those who sweep the streets—­a loose blue blouse, and trousers tucked into boots reaching half-way up his calves; he held a peaked cap in his hand.

After some seconds of mutual admiration, Hilary said: 

“Mr. Hughs, I believe?” Yes.

“I’ve been up to see your wife.”