"You say a man's got no brain, when he's a fool: and no heart, when he's mean; and no stomach when he's a funker. And when he's got none of that spunky wild bit of a man in him, you say he's got no balls. When he's sort of tame."
She pondered this.
"And is Clifford tame?" she asked.
"Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up against 'em."
"And do you think you're not tame?"
"Maybe not quite!"
At length she saw in the distance a yellow light.
She stood still.
"There is a light?" she said.
"I always leave a light in the house," he said.
She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she was going with him at all.
He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As if it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red fire, there were cups on the table.
She sat in the wooden armchair by the fire. It was warm after the chill outside.
"I'll take off my shoes, they are wet," she said.
She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She was warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door.
"Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?" he asked.
"I don't think I want anything," she said, looking at the table. "But you eat."
"Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog."
He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously.
"Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!" he said.
He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog, instead of eating, came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled.
He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer.
