The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace.  She often looked out to get a few words with him, by night or by day.  Her sorrow was that she could not accompany her one old friend on foot a little way, and talk more freely than she could do while he paused before the house.  One night, at the beginning of June, when she was again on the watch after an absence of some days from the window, he entered the gate and said softly, ‘Now, wouldn’t some air do you good?  I’ve only half a load this morning.  Why not ride up to Covent Garden with me?  There’s a nice seat on the cabbages, where I’ve spread a sack.  You can be home again in a cab before anybody is up.’  
She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily finished her , and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil, afterwards sidling downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she could adopt on an emergency.  When she had opened the door she found Sam on the step, and he lifted her bodily on his strong arm across the little forecourt into his vehicle.  Not a soul was visible or audible in the infinite length of the straight, flat highway, with its ever-waiting lamps to points in each direction.  The air was fresh as country air at this hour, and the stars shone, except to the north-eastward, where there was a whitish light—the dawn.  Sam carefully placed her in the seat, and drove on.
 
They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam pulling himself up now and then, when he thought himself too familiar.  More than once she said with that she wondered if she ought to have indulged in the freak.  ‘But I am so lonely in my house,’ she added, ‘and this makes me so happy!’
 
‘You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott.  There is no time o’ day for taking the air like this.’
 
It grew and lighter.  The sparrows became busy in the streets, and the city waxed around them.  When they approached the river it was day, and on the bridge they the full blaze of morning sunlight in the direction of St. Paul’s, the river towards it, and not a craft stirring.
 
Near Covent Garden he put her into a cab, and they parted, looking into each other’s faces like the very old friends they were.  She reached home without adventure, limped to the door, and let herself in with her latch-key unseen.
 
The air and Sam’s presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite pink—almost beautiful.  She had something to live for in addition to her son.  A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong indeed.
 
Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of going with him again, and on this occasion their conversation was distinctly tender, and Sam said he never should forget her, notwithstanding that she had served him rather badly at one time.  After much he told her of a plan it was in his power to carry out, and one he should like to take in hand, since he did not care for London work: it was to set up as a master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the county-town of their native place.  He knew of an opening—a shop kept by people who wished to retire.
 
‘And why don’t you do it, then, Sam?’ she asked with a slight heartsinking.
 
‘Because I’m not sure if—you’d join me.  I know you wouldn’t—couldn’t!  Such a lady as ye’ve been so long, you couldn’t be a wife to a man like me.’
 
‘I hardly suppose I could!’ she , also frightened at the idea.
 
‘If you could,’ he said eagerly, ‘you’d on’y have to sit in the back parlour and look through the glass partition when I was away sometimes—just to keep an eye on things.  The wouldn’t hinder that . . . I’d keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear Sophy—if I might think of it!’ he pleaded.
 
‘Sam, I’ll be frank,’ she said, putting her hand on his.  ‘If it were only myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I possess would be lost to me by marrying again.’
 
‘I don’t mind that!  It’s more independent.’
 
‘That’s good of you, dear, dear Sam.  But there’s something else.  I have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am sometimes that he is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband.  He seems to belong so little to me personally, so to his dead father.  He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be told.’
 
‘Yes.  Unquestionably.’  Sam saw her thought and her fear.  ‘Still, you can do as you like, Sophy—Mrs. Twycott,’ he added.  ‘It is not you who are the child, but he.’
 
‘Ah, you don’t know!  Sam, if I could, I would marry you, some day.  But you must wait a while, and let me think.’
 
It was enough for him, and he was at their parting.  Not so she.  To tell Randolph seemed impossible.  She could wait till he had gone up to , when what she did would affect his life but little.  But would he ever tolerate the idea?  And if not, could she defy him?
 
She had not told him a word when the yearly cricket-match came on at Lord’s between the public schools, though Sam had already gone back to Aldbrickham.  Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual: she went to the match with Randolph, and was able to leave her chair and walk about occasionally.  The bright idea occurred to her that she could the subject while moving round among the spectators, when the boy’s spirits were high with interest in the game, and he would weigh domestic matters as feathers in the scale beside the day’s victory.  They under the July sun, this pair, so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw the large proportion of boys like her own, in their broad white collars and hats, and all around the rows of great coaches under which was the débris of ; bones, pie-crusts, champagne-bottles, glasses, plates, napkins, and the family silver; while on the coaches sat the proud fathers and mothers; but never a poor mother like her.  If Randolph had not appertained to these, had not centred all his interests in them, had not cared exclusively for the class they belonged to, how happy would things have been!  A great huzza at some small performance with the bat burst from the multitude of relatives, and Randolph jumped wildly into the air to see what had happened.  Sophy fetched up the sentence that had been already shaped; but she could not get it out.  The occasion was, perhaps, an inopportune one.  The contrast between her story and the display of fashion to which Randolph had grown to regard himself as would be fatal.  She awaited a better time.
 
It was on an evening when they were alone in their plain residence, where life was not blue but brown, that she ultimately broke silence, qualifying her announcement of a probable second marriage by assuring him that it would not take place for a long time to come, when he would be living quite independently of her.
 
The boy thought the idea a very reasonable one, and asked if she had chosen anybody?  She hesitated; and he seemed to have a misgiving.  He hoped his stepfather would be a gentleman? he said.
 
‘Not what you call a gentleman,’ she answered timidly.  ‘He’ll be much as I was before I knew your father;’ and by degrees she acquainted him with the whole.  The youth’s face remained for a moment; then he flushed, leant on the table, and burst into tears.
 
His mother went up to him, kissed all of his face that she could get at, and patted his back as if he were still the baby he once had been, crying herself the while.  When he had somewhat recovered from his paroxysm he went hastily to his own room and fastened the door.
 
Parleyings were attempted through the keyhole, outside which she waited and listened.  It was long before he would reply, and when he did it was to say sternly at her from within: ‘I am ashamed of you!  It will ruin me!  A miserable ! a ! a clown!  It will degrade me in the eyes of all the gentlemen of England!’
 
‘Say no more—perhaps I am wrong!  I will struggle against it!’ she cried .
 
Before Randolph left her that summer a letter arrived from Sam to inform her that he had been unexpectedly fortunate in obtaining the shop.  He was in possession; it was the largest in the town, combining fruit with vegetables, and he thought it would form a home even of her some day.  Might he not run up to town to see her?
 
She met him by stealth, and said he must still wait for her final answer.  The autumn dragged on, and when Randolph was home at Christmas for the holidays she the matter again.  But the young gentleman was inexorable.
 
It was dropped for months; renewed again; abandoned under his ; again attempted; and thus the gentle creature reasoned and pleaded till four or five long years had passed.  Then the faithful Sam revived his suit with some .  Sophy’s son, now an undergraduate, was down from Oxford one Easter, when she again opened the subject.  As soon as he was , she argued, he would have a home of his own, wherein she, with her bad grammar and her ignorance, would be an to him.  Better her as much as possible.
 
He showed a more anger now, but would not agree.  She on her side was more , and he had doubts whether she could be trusted in his absence.  But by indignation and contempt for her taste he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally taking her before a little cross and altar that he had in his bedroom for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and swear that she would not Samuel Hobson without his consent.  ‘I owe this to my father!’ he said.
 
The poor woman swore, thinking he would as soon as he was ordained and in full swing of clerical work.  But he did not.  His education had by this time his humanity to keep him quite firm; though his mother might have led an life with her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and nobody have been anything the worse in the world.
 
Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or never left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining her heart away.  ‘Why mayn’t I say to Sam that I’ll marry him?  Why mayn’t I?’ she would to herself when nobody was near.
 
Some four years after this date a man was at the door of the largest fruiterer’s shop in Aldbrickham.  He was the , but to-day, instead of his usual business , he wore a neat suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered.  From the railway-station a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of the town towards the village of Gaymead.  The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shop keeper standing there.
 
December 1891.