Even the weather seemed unpropitious as they set out together again soon after six.  Rain had fallen in the night, yet not all the rain that there was overhead.  There were still clouds hanging, mixed with the smoke from the chimneys; the hedges seemed dulled and black in spite of their green; the cinder path they walked on was depressing, the rain-fed road even more so.  They passed a dozen men on their way to the pits, who made remarks on the three, and retaliation was out of the question.

* * * * *

It was very disconcerting to Frank to find the difference that his new circumstances made; and yet he did not seriously consider changing them.  It seemed to him, somehow or other, in that strange fashion in which such feelings come, that the whole matter was pre-arranged, and that the company in which he found himself was as inevitably his—­at least for the present—­as the family to a child born into it.  And there was, of course, too, a certain element of relief in feeling himself no longer completely alone; and there was also, as Frank said later, a curious sense of attraction towards, and pity for, Gertie that held him there.

At the first public-house that was open the Major stopped.

“I’ll get your Cinderellas now, if you like,” he said.

This had not been Frank’s idea, but he hardly hesitated.

“All right,” he said.  “Here’s fourpence.”

The Major vanished through the swing-doors as a miner came out, and a gush of sweet and sickly scent—­beer, spirits, tobacco—­poured upon the fresh air.  And there was a vision of a sawdusted floor and spittoons within.

Frank looked at Gertie, who had stopped like a patient donkey, and, like a prudent one, had let her bundle instantly down beside the Major’s.

“Like one, too?” he said.

She shook her head.

“Not for me.” ...  And no more.

In a couple of minutes the Major was out again.

“Only had one packet left,” he said, and with an air of extreme punctiliousness and magnanimity replaced one penny in Frank’s hand.  He had the air of one who is insistent on the little honesties of life.  There was also a faintly spirituous atmosphere about him, and his eyes looked a little less sunken.

Then he handed over the cigarettes.

“Shouldn’t mind one myself,” he said genially.

Frank gave him one before lighting his own.

“You’re a good sort,” said the Major, “and I wish I could give you one of my old cigars I used to give my friends.”

“Ah! well, when your ship comes home,” observed Frank, throwing away his match.

The Major nodded his head as with an air of fallen grandeur.

“Well,” he said, “vorwaerts.  That means ‘forward,’ my dear,” he explained to Gertie.

Gertie said nothing.  They took up their bundles and went on.

(V)