"A rotten pair of things to have, to put a man's life in danger," he said, towards the steps. Then stubbornly, he rigged them up again, and stared again at his interrupted job.

"You won't go on, will you?" she asked.

"It's got to be done, Sunday tomorrow," he said. "If you'd hold them steps a minute! There isn't more than a minute's fixing to do. It's all done, but fixing."

"Hadn't you better leave it," she said.

"Would you mind holding the steps, so that they don't let me down again," he said. Then he took the candle, and hobbled stubbornly and angrily up again, with spanner and hammer. For some minutes he worked, tapping and readjusting, whilst she held the ricketty steps and stared at him from below, the shapeless bulk of his trousers.

Strange the difference--she could not help thinking it--between the vulnerable hairy, and somehow childish leg of the real man, and the shapeless form of these workmen's trousers. The kernel, the man himself--seemed so tender--the covering so stiff and insentient.

And was he not going to speak to her--not one human word of recognition? Men are the most curious and unreal creatures. After all he had made use of her. Think how he had pressed her hand gently but firmly down, down over his bruise, how he had taken the virtue out of her, till she felt all weak and dim. And after that was he going to relapse into his tough and ugly workman's hide, and treat her as if _she_ were a pair of steps, which might let him down or hold him up, as might be.

As she stood clinging to the steps she felt weak and a little hysterical. She wanted to summon her strength, to have her own back from him. After all he had taken the virtue from her, he might have the grace to say thank you, and treat her as if she were a human being.

At last he left off tinkering, and looked round.

"Have you finished?" she said.

"Yes," he answered crossly.

And taking the candle he began to clamber down. When he got to the bottom he crouched over his leg and felt the bandage.

"That gives you what for," he said, as if it were her fault.

"Is the bandage holding?" she said.

"I think so," he answered churlishly.

"Aren't you going to make sure?" she said.

"Oh, it's all right," he said, turning aside and taking up his tools. "I'll make my way home."

"So will I," she answered.

She took the candle and went a little in front. He hurried into his coat and gathered his tools, anxious to get away. She faced him, holding the candle.

"Look at my hand," she said, holding it out. It was smeared with blood, as was the cuff of her dress--a black-and-white striped cotton dress.

"Is it hurt?" he said.

"No, but look at it. Look here!" She showed the bloodstains on her dress.

"It'll wash out," he said, frightened of her.

"Yes, so it will. But for the present it's there. Don't you think you ought to thank me?"

He recoiled a little.

"Yes," he said. "I'm very much obliged."

"You ought to be more than that," she said.

He did not answer, but looked her up and down.

"We'll be going down," he said. "We s'll have folks talking."

Suddenly she began to laugh. It seemed so comical. What a position!

The candle shook as she laughed. What a man, answering her like a little automaton! Seriously, quite seriously he said it to her--"We s'll have folks talking!" She laughed in a breathless, hurried way, as they tramped downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs Calladine, the caretaker, met them. He was a tall thin man with a black moustache--about fifty years old.

"Have you done for tonight, all of you?" he said, grinning in echo to Alvina's still fluttering laughter.

"That's a nice rotten pair of steps you've got up there for a death-trap," said Arthur angrily. "Come down on top of me, and I'm lucky I haven't got my leg broken. It _is_ near enough."

"Come down with you, did they?" said Calladine good-humouredly. "I never knowed 'em come down wi' me."

"You ought to, then. My leg's as near broke as it can be."

"What, have you hurt yourself?"

"I should think I have. Look here--" And he began to pull up his trouser leg. But Alvina had given the candle to Calladine, and fled.

She had a last view of Arthur stooping over his precious leg, while Calladine stooped his length and held down the candle.

When she got home she took off her dress and washed herself hard and washed the stained sleeve, thoroughly, thoroughly, and threw away the wash water and rinsed the wash-bowls with fresh water, scrupulously. Then she dressed herself in her black dress once more, did her hair, and went downstairs.

But she could not sew--and she could not settle down. It was Sat.u.r.day evening, and her father had opened the shop, Miss Pinnegar had gone to Knarborough. She would be back at nine o'clock. Alvina set about to make a mock woodc.o.c.k, or a mock something or other, with cheese and an egg and bits of toast. Her eyes were dilated and as if amused, mocking, her face quivered a little with irony that was not all enjoyable.

"I'm glad you've come," said Alvina, as Miss Pinnegar entered. "The supper's just done. I'll ask father if he'll close the shop."

Of course James would not close the shop, though he was merely wasting light. He nipped in to eat his supper, and started out again with a mouthful the moment he heard the ping of the bell. He kept his customers chatting as long as he could. His love for conversation had degenerated into a spasmodic pa.s.sion for chatter.

Alvina looked across at Miss Pinnegar, as the two sat at the meagre supper-table. Her eyes were dilated and arched with a mocking, almost satanic look.

"I've made up my mind about Albert Witham," said Alvina. Miss Pinnegar looked at her.

"Which way?" she asked, demurely, but a little sharp.

"It's all off," said Alvina, breaking into a nervous laugh.

"Why? What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. I can't stand him."

"Why?--suddenly--" said Miss Pinnegar.

"It's not sudden," laughed Alvina. "Not at all. I can't stand him. I never could. And I won't try. There! Isn't that plain?" And she went off into her hurried laugh, partly at herself, partly at Arthur, partly at Albert, partly at Miss Pinnegar.

"Oh, well, if you're so sure--" said Miss Pinnegar rather bitingly.