“What poor fun you think me; don’t you, Mr. Wrayburn? You may well look tired of me. But it’s Saturday night, and I won’t detain you.”
“That is to say, Miss Wren,” observed Eugene, quite ready to profit by the hint, “you wish me to go?”
“Well, it’s Saturday night,” she returned, “and my child’s coming home. And my child is a troublesome bad child, and costs me a world of scolding. I would rather you didn’t see my child.”
“A doll?” said Eugene, not understanding, and looking for an explanation.
But Lizzie, with her lips only, shaping the two words, “Her father,” he delayed no longer. He took his leave immediately. At the corner of the street he stopped to light another cigar, and possibly to ask himself what he was doing otherwise. If so, the answer was indefinite and vague. Who knows what he is doing, who is careless what he does!
A man stumbled against him as he turned away, who mumbled some maudlin apology. Looking after this man, Eugene saw him go in at the door by which he himself had just come out.
On the man’s stumbling into the room, Lizzie rose to leave it.
“Don’t go away, Miss Hexam,” he said in a submissive manner, speaking thickly and with difficulty. “Don’t fly from unfortunate man in shattered state of health. Give poor invalid honour of your company. It ain’t—ain’t catching.”
Lizzie murmured that she had something to do in her own room, and went away upstairs.
“How’s my Jenny?” said the man, timidly. “How’s my Jenny Wren, best of children, object dearest affections brokenhearted invalid?”