enough. You know very well, both of you,
why I am taking this step; think and say about me what you like. I have
no time to talk, and so I bid you good-bye.'

They did not seek to detain him, but stood mute whilst he left the room.

The little boy, timid and impatient, was at the head of the stairs. His
father enveloped him warmly in a shawl, and so they went forth. It was
not long before they met with a vacant cab. Half-an-hour's drive brought
them to the eating-house where Peachey had had his chop that evening,
and here he obtained a bedroom for the night.

By eleven o'clock the child slept peacefully. The father, seated at a
table, was engaged in writing to a solicitor.

At midnight he lay softly down by the child's side, and there, until
dawn, listened to the low breathing of his innocent little bedfellow.
Though he could not sleep, it was joy, rather than any painful
excitement, that kept him wakeful. A great and loathsome burden had
fallen from him, and in the same moment he had rescued his boy out of
an atmosphere of hated impurity. At length he could respect himself,
and for the first time in four long years he looked to the future with
tranquil hope.

Careless of the frank curiosity with which the people of the house
regarded him, he went down at seven o'clock, and asked for a railway
time-table. Having found a convenient train to Canterbury, he ordered
breakfast for himself and the child to be laid in a private room. It was
a merry meal. Sunshine of midsummer fell warm and bright upon the table;
the street below was so full of busy life that the little boy must needs
have his breakfast by the window, where he could eat and look forth at
the same time. No such delightful holiday had he ever enjoyed. Alone
with father, and going away by train into wonderful new worlds.

'Is Emma coming?' he asked.

It was significant that he did not speak of his mother.

They drove to the railway station, Peachey no less excited than the
child. From here he despatched a telegram to his partners, saying that
he should be absent for a day or two.

Then the train, struggling slowly out of London's welter, through the
newest outposts of gloom and grime, bore them, hearts companioned
in love and blamelessness, to the broad sunny meadows and the sweet
hop-gardens of Kent.

CHAPTER 5

'Serves her jolly well right,' said Beatrice.

'A lot _she'll_ care,' said Fanny. 'I should think myself precious
lucky. She gets