It was all in the day's work--a single step on the road which
he had mapped out deliberately. But this was outside his experience. It
had pounced on him from nowhere, shaking him.
He had to look up at her again. And then he saw that she was looking at
him too, steadily, with a deep, inquiring kindness.
It was as though she had said aloud:
"Are you really a good little boy, Robert?"
The cider poured over the edge of the glass and over the table-cloth and
in a dismal stream on to the lap of the girl with the raffish billycock
hat.
"Well, that settles that," she said good-humouredly. "My only skirt,
friends. She can't turn me out in my petticoat, can she? Oh, leave it
alone, garcong; it doesn't matter a tinker's curse----"
He could not help it. In the midst of his angry confusion he still had
to seek out her verdict on him--just as Robert Stonehouse had always done
when he had been peculiarly heroic or unfortunate. And there it was,
dancing beneath her gravity, her unforgotten, magic laughter.
At half-past ten Brown's cleared its last table. Robert Stonehouse
rolled down his sleeves, picked up the parcel which had been placed ready
for him on the pantry counter, said good-night to the head waiter, who
did not answer, and with his coat-collar turned up about his ears went
out in the street. It was quiet as a country lane and empty except for
the girl who waited beyond the lamp light. He knew her instantly, and in
turn two sensations that were equally foreign and unfamiliar seized him.
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