"But you wanted to go, Bill."
"Of course; but I said----"
"I know--about the biby; but----"
"There you go again. Didn't you say I must?"
"Oh, well, Mr. Montague"--the little woman looked frankly into his
gray-blue, unreadable eyes--"the biby's a boy, and when he grows up I
cawn't say to 'im, ''Arry, your father was a slacker!' Now, can I, Mr.
Montague?"
He made no answer, but a thoughtful look crept into the hard, unsmiling
eyes.
"Come and have a bit of supper, pard?" Private Waller rubbed his hands
together at the prospect.
"No--no, thanks," said Montague hastily. He was longing for privacy and
the solace that comes with solitude. "Some other night, perhaps, when
we have our uniforms."
"Good enough!" cried the cheery little man. "Then we'll do Queen Street
together and show the girls--what ho--oh no!"
Montague raised his hat. "Good evening," he said.
"So long," said Private Waller. "See you in the morning."
When they were alone the husband turned to his young wife with an air
of pride. "What do you think of my pal?" he asked, with an air of
proprietorship.
"G'wan," said Emily disdainfully; "'e ain't your pal."
"He is, too."
"'E ain't!" She tossed her head. "Don't I know one when I sees one; me,
the daughter of a footman in Lady Swankbourne's? 'E your pal! 'E
blooming well ain't--'e's a _gentleman_!"
Far up the street Montague was striding towards his home, wondering if
any one had seen him with the Wallers, or had heard the garrulous
little cockney call him pard. Good heavens! what would his friends say;
or, for that matter, how could he face Sylvester if he had been seen by
that polite scion of servitude? "But I'll see it through," he muttered
savagely, biting his lip, "if only to prove that the under-dog, like
all other dogs, is a thing without a soul!"