“I am not frightened. I am indignant,” says George Dunbar.
“Cloete boiling with rage inside. Chance of a lifetime—his chance! And he says kindly: Your wife’ll be much more indignant when you ask her to get out of that pretty house of yours and pile in into a two-pair back—with kids perhaps, too. . .
“George had no children. Married a couple of years; looked forward to a kid or two very much. Feels more upset than ever. Talks about an honest man for father, and so on. Cloete grins: You be quick before they come, and they’ll have a rich man for father, and no one the worse for it. That’s the beauty of the thing.
“George nearly cries. I believe he did cry at odd times. This went on for weeks. He couldn’t quarrel with Cloete. Couldn’t pay off his few hundreds; and besides, he was used to have him about. Weak fellow, George. Cloete generous, too. . . Don’t think of my little pile, says he. Of course it’s gone when we have to shut up. But I don’t care, he says. . . And then there was George’s new wife. When Cloete dines there, the beggar puts on a dress suit; little woman liked it; . . . Mr. Cloete, my husband’s partner; such a clever man, man of the world, so amusing! . . . When he dines there and they are alone: Oh, Mr. Cloete, I wish George would do something to improve our prospects. Our position is really so mediocre. . . And Cloete smiles, but isn’t surprised, because he had put all these notions himself into her empty head. . . What your husband wants is enterprise, a little audacity. You can encourage him best, Mrs. Dunbar. . . She was a silly, extravagant little fool. Had made George take a house in Norwood. Live up to a lot of people better off than themselves. I saw her once; silk dress, pretty boots, all feathers and scent, pink face. More like the Promenade at the Alhambra than a decent home, it looked to me. But some women do get a devil of a hold on a man.”
“Yes, some do,” I assented. “Even when the man is the husband.”
“My missis,” he addressed me unexpectedly, in a solemn, surprisingly hollow tone, “could wind me round her little finger. I didn’t find it out till she was gone. Aye. But she was a woman of sense, while that piece of goods ought to have been walking the streets, and that’s all I can say. . . You must make her up out of your head. You will know the sort.”