In the day-time Robert played ball in the quiet street or sat with his
elbows on the window-sill and watched the people go in and out of the
houses opposite. The people were grey and furtive-looking, as though
they were afraid of attracting the notice of some dangerous monster and
had tried to take on the colour of their surroundings in
self-protection. They seemed to ask nothing more for themselves than
that they should be forgotten. Robert knew how they felt. He felt
like that himself. He was never sure that he was really safe. He
dared not ask questions lest he should find out that his father wasn't
dead after all, or that they were on the brink of some new convulsion.
He did not even ask where Christine went in the day-time, or what had
become of Edith, or where their money came from. He clung desperately
to an ignorance which allowed him to believe that he and Christine
would always live like this, quietly and happily. When the landlady's
shadow came heavy-footed up the stairs, he hid himself and stuffed his
fingers in his ears lest he should hear her threaten them with instant
expulsion. (It was incredible that she and Christine should be talking
amicably about the weather.) Or when they went to the butcher's, he
hung behind in dread anticipation of the red-faced man's insolent "And
what about that there little account of ours, Ma'am?" But the
red-faced man smiled ingratiatingly and patted him on the back and
called him a fine young fellow. Christine counted out her money at the
desk. It made Robert dizzy with joy and pride to see her pay her bill,
and tears came into his throat and nearly choked him. On the way home
he behaved abominably, chased cats or threw stones with a reckless
disregard for their neighbours' windows, and Christine, looking into
his flushed, excited face, had a movement that was like the shadow of
his own secret fear.

"Robert, Robert, don't be so wild. You might hurt yourself--or someone