They were walking towards Whitehall.  When they came at length into an ill-lighted and quiet spot, the woman stopped.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘Live?  Oh, just out here in Pimlico.  Like to see my rooms?’

’What do you mean by talking to me like that?  Do you make a joke of deserting your wife and child for seven years, leaving them without a penny, going about enjoying yourself, when, for anything you knew, they were begging their bread?  You always were heartless—­it was the blackest day of my life that I met you; and you ask me if I’d like to see your rooms!  What thanks to you that I’m not as vile a creature as there is in London?  How was I to support myself and the child?  What was I to do when they turned me into the streets of New York because I couldn’t pay what you owed them nor the rent of a room to sleep in?  You took good care you never went hungry.  I’d only one thing to hold me up:  I was an honest woman, and I made up my mind I’d keep honest, though I had such a man as you for my husband.  I’ve hungered and worked, and I’ve made a living for myself and my child as best I could.  I’m not like you:  I’ve done nothing to disgrace myself.  Now I will slave no more.  You won’t run away from me this time.  Leave me for a single night, and I go to the nearest police-station and tell all I know about you.  If I wasn’t a fool I’d do it now.  But I’ve hungered and worked for seven years, and now it’s time my husband did something for me.’

‘You always had a head for argument, Clara,’ he replied coolly.  ’But I can’t get over that dream of mine.  Really a queer thing, wasn’t it?  Who’d have thought of you turning barmaid?  With your education, I should have thought you could have done something in the teaching line.  Never mind.  The queerest thing of all is that I’m really half glad to see you.  How’s Jack?’

The extraordinary conversation went on as they walked towards the street where Clara lived.  It was in a poor part of Westminster.  Reaching the house, Clara opened the door with a latchkey.

Two women were standing in the passage.

‘This is my husband, Mrs. Rook,’ Clara said to one of them.  ’He’s just got back from abroad.’

‘Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,’ said the landlady, scrutinising him with unmistakable suspicion.

The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson—­she had always used the name she received in marriage—­opened a door which disclosed a dark bedroom.  A voice came from within—­the voice of a little lad of eight years old.

’That you, mother?  Why, I’ve only just put myself to bed.  What time is it?’

‘Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,’ replied his mother whilst she was striking a light.

It was a very small room, but decent.  The boy was discovered sitting up in bed—­a bright-faced little fellow with black hair.  Clara closed the door, then turned and looked at her husband.  The light made a glistening appearance on her eyes; she had become silent, allowing facts to speak for themselves.