The removal which Bunce was about to effect signified an improvement of circumstances.  It was time for his luck to turn.  Year after year he had found himself still at grip with poverty.  The shadow of his evil domestic experiences lengthened as he drew further away, and it seemed as if he would never get beyond it.  To a man of any native delicacy, the memory of bondage to a hateful woman clings like a long disease which impoverishes the blood; there is only one way of eradicating it, and that is with the aid of a strong, wholesome, new emotion.  And at length Bunce began to feel that the past was really past; one sign of it was the better fortune which enabled him to earn more money.  One of his children was dead, but the other two were growing in health of mind and body, and he could clothe them better, could look forward to their future, at last, without that sinking of the heart which at times had made him pause by night on one of the river bridges and long for a moment’s madness that he might plunge and have done with everything.  Few men had come out of darkness into the light of a sober working day with less help than he had had.  It was his nature to keep silence on his difficulties.  He did not much care to hold continuous friendship with any man, for, like all who have the habit of talking to themselves, he was conscious that his companionship lacked attraction.  Moreover—­a thing which superficial observers do not realise—­like all who are most genuinely at odds with the world, the first head of his quarrel was with himself.  He was only too well aware of his own defects and errors.  He felt himself to be unamiable, often gross of understanding, always ready to fall into a blunder which other men would avoid.  He had stood in his own way as often as he had been balked by others, perhaps oftener.

Now he was going to risk a step forward, was going to leave his single room lodging and take two rooms in a brighter street some distance away.  They would be vacant for him a fortnight hence, and he had money enough to buy furniture.  Yet he did not look forward to the change as cheerfully as might have been expected.

For one reason, and for one only, the old abode was preferable to him; it was a reason of such weight that it cost him no little exertion of common sense to put it aside.  At the same time, it had to be put aside, and most resolutely, for, whenever it occupied his mind, he soon found himself uttering contemptuous remarks upon his own thick-headed folly.  He would sometimes blurt out such words as ‘fool—­idiot—­blockhead,’ as he walked along the street, astonishing passers-by who could not be supposed to know that the speaker was applying these epithets to himself.

On Sunday evening, a day or two after the conversation just reported between Jack and Totty, Bunce took his children to Battersea Park.  When there, he did not walk about among the people, but sought a retired piece of lawn and sat down to enjoy a pipe.  Nelly had brought a doll with her, and found delectable occupation in explaining to it all the various objects which might reasonably excite its curiosity in such a place.  Jack talked with his father of chemistry, of his school teachers, of what he would be when he was a man.  Their conversation was interrupted by Nelly’s exclaiming: