William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless--a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of waste ground, William said--
"Let's go in there; we'll be able to talk easier." Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked for a place where they could sit down.
"This is just like old times," said William, moving a little closer.
"If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I'll get up and go. I only came out with you because you said you had something particular to say about the child."
"Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son."
"I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy--is it?"
"Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very different to his father. I've always told him that his father is dead."
"Not a bit. I've told him his father wasn't good to me; and he don't care for those who haven't been good to his mother."
"I see, you've brought him up to hate me?"
"He don't know nothing about you--how should 'e?"
"Very likely; but there's no need to be that particular nasty. As I've said before, what's done can't be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and I've been badly treated myself--damned badly treated. You've 'ad a 'ard time; so have I, if that's any comfort to ye."
"I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me."
William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. He held a long grass stalk between his small, discoloured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked at Esther; she sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spread over the rough grass; her cloth jacket was unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-looking woman and he imagined her behind the bar of the "King's Head." His marriage had proved childless and in every way a failure; he now desired a wife such as he felt sure she would be, and his heart hankered sorely after his son. He tried to read Esther's quiet, subdued face. It was graver than usual, and betrayed none of the passion that choked in her. She must manage that the men should not meet. But how should she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was looking at her, and to lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him where he had gone with his wife when they left Woodview. Breaking off suddenly, he said--