It's only a short while, Mr. Wilks, and the little
children'll be running about over your grave and picking daisies off
of it."
"Ho, will they?" said the irritated Mr. Wilks; "they'd better not let me
catch 'em at it, that's all."
"He's always talking like that now," said Mrs. Silk, not without a
certain pride in her tones; "that's why I asked you in to cheer 'im up."
"All your troubles'll be over then," continued the warning voice, "and in
a month or two even your name'll be forgotten. That's the way of the
world. Think 'ow soon the last five years of your life 'ave passed; the
next five'll pass ten times as fast even if you live as long, which ain't
likely."
"He talks like a clergyman," said Mrs. Silk, in a stage whisper.
Mr. Wilks nodded, and despite his hostess's protests rose to go. He
shook hands with her and, after a short but sharp inward struggle, shook
hands with her son. It was late in the evening as he left, but the
houses had not yet been lit up. Dim figures sat in doorways or stood
about the alley, and there was an air of peace and rest strangely and
uncomfortably in keeping with the conversation to which he had just been
listening. He looked in at his own door; the furniture seemed stiffer
than usual and the tick of the clock more deliberate.
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