“He does look more than his age, I allow; he never had any home; his father married a second time; he says this is the first home he’s had; he’s never been so happy.” All the time he had been halting about in the evenings in the dining-room, never going out and seeming to have nothing to do but a sort of malicious lying-in-wait to make facetious remarks, he had been feeling at home, happy at home, and growing happier and happier. Poor little man, at home in nothing but the dining-room at Tansley Street. … Mrs. Bailey. … Was he good enough for her? She had not always liked or even approved of him.
“Well; that’s lovely. Of course he has been happy here.”
“That’s all very well for the past; but there’s many breakers ahead. He wants me to give up and have a little home of our own. But there’s my chicks. I can’t give up till they’re settled. I’ve told him that. I can’t do less than my duty by them .”
“Of course not. He’s a dear. I think he’s splendid.” But how generously glowing the struggling house seemed now; compared to a life alone, in some small small corner, with Mr. Gunner. …
“Bless ’im. He’s only a clurk, poor boy, at thirty-five weekly.”
“Of course clerks don’t make much; unless they have languages. He ought to learn one or two languages.”
“He’s not over strong. It’s not money I’m thinking of—” she flushed and hesitated and then said with a girlish rush, “I’d manage; once I’m free; I’d manage. I’d work my fingers to the bone for ’im.” Marvellous, for a little man who would go on writing yours of yesterday’s date to hand as per statement enclosed; nothing in his day but his satisfaction in the curves and flourishes of his handwriting … and then home comforts, Mrs. Bailey always there, growing more worn and ill and old; an old woman before he was thirty.