'You are not my mother, I believe?'

He stooped down and touched its cheek. The baby blinked its black eyes
once.

'No,' it seemed, to say again, 'you are not my mother.'

A lump rose in Hilary's throat; he turned and went downstairs. Pausing
outside the little model's door, he knocked, and, receiving no answer,
turned the handle. The little square room was empty; it was neat and
clean enough, with a pink-flowered paper of comparatively modern date.
Through its open window could be seen a pear-tree in full bloom. Hilary
shut the door again with care, ashamed of having opened it.

On the half-landing, staring up at him with black eyes like the baby's,
was a man of medium height and active build, whose short face, with
broad cheekbones, cropped dark hair, straight nose, and little black
moustache, was burnt a dark dun colour. He was dressed in the uniform
of those who sweep the streets--a loose blue blouse, and trousers tucked
into boots reaching half-way up his calves; he held a peaked cap in his
hand.

After some seconds of mutual admiration, Hilary said:

"Mr. Hughs, I believe?" Yes.

"I've been up to see your wife."

"Have you?"