Roberts.  Ah!  So they say!  They can remember the women when their own bellies speak!  The women never stop them from the drink; but from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women stop them fast enough.

Mrs. Roberts.  But think o’ the children, David.

Roberts.  Ah!  If they will go breeding themselves for slaves, without a thought o’ the future o’ them they breed——­

Mrs. Roberts. [Gasping.] That’s enough, David; don’t begin to talk of that—­I won’t—­I can’t——­

Roberts. [Staring at her.] Now, now, my girl!

Mrs. Roberts. [Breathlessly.] No, no, David—­I won’t!

Roberts.  There, there!  Come, come!  That’s right! [Bitterly.] Not one penny will they put by for a day like this.  Not they!  Hand to mouth—­Gad!—­I know them!  They’ve broke my heart.  There was no holdin’ them at the start, but now the pinch ’as come.

Mrs. Roberts.  How can you expect it, David?  They’re not made of iron.

Roberts.  Expect it?  Wouldn’t I expect what I would do meself?  Wouldn’t I starve an’ rot rather than give in?  What one man can do, another can.

Mrs. Roberts.  And the women?

Roberts.  This is not women’s work.

Mrs. Roberts. [With a flash of malice.] No, the women may die for all you care.  That’s their work.

Roberts. [Averting his eyes.] Who talks of dying?  No one will die till we have beaten these——­

     [He meets her eyes again, and again turns his away.  Excitedly.]

This is what I’ve been waiting for all these months.  To get the old robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin’s worth o’ change.  I ’ve seen their faces, I tell you, in the valley of the shadow of defeat.

     [He goes to the peg and takes down his hat.]

Mrs. Roberts. [Following with her eyes-softly.] Take your overcoat, David; it must be bitter cold.

Roberts. [Coming up to her-his eyes are furtive.] No, no!  There, there, stay quiet and warm.  I won’t be long, my girl.

Mrs. Roberts. [With soft bitterness.] You’d better take it.

[She lifts the coat.  But Roberts puts it back, and wraps it round her.  He tries to meet her eyes, but cannot.  Mrs. Roberts stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him about, are half malicious, half yearning.  He looks at his watch again, and turns to go.  In the doorway he meets Jan Thomas, a boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny whistle.]

Roberts.  Hallo, boy!

     [He goes.  Jan stops within a yard of Mrs. Roberts, and stares
     at her without a word.]