"
"And is he sorry?"
"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.
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