“I see you are,” said Mrs. Baines tartly.  “But that’s no reason why you should be without a coat—­and in this cold room too.  You with toothache!”

The fact was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when cutting out.  Instead of a coat he wore a tape-measure.

“My tooth doesn’t hurt me,” said he, sheepishly, dropping the great scissors and picking up a cake of chalk.

“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Baines.

This exclamation shocked Mr. Povey.  It was not unknown on the lips of Mrs. Baines, but she usually reserved it for members of her own sex.  Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever applied it to any statement of his.  “What’s the matter with the woman?” he thought.  The redness of her face did not help him to answer the question, for her face was always red after the operations of Friday in the kitchen.

“You men are all alike,” Mrs. Baines continued.  “The very thought of the dentist’s cures you.  Why don’t you go in at once to Mr. Critchlow and have it out—­like a man?”

Mr. Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign said “Bone-setter and chemist.”  But Mr. Povey had his views.

“I make no account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist,” said he.

“Then for goodness’ sake go up to Oulsnam’s.”

“When?  I can’t very well go now, and to-morrow is Saturday.”

“Why can’t you go now?”

“Well, of course, I could go now,” he admitted.

“Let me advise you to go, then, and don’t come back with that tooth in your head.  I shall be having you laid up next.  Show some pluck, do!”

“Oh! pluck—!” he protested, hurt.

At that moment Constance came down the passage singing.

“Constance, my pet!” Mrs. Baines called.

“Yes, mother.”  She put her head into the room.  “Oh!” Mr. Povey was assuming his coat.

“Mr. Povey is going to the dentist’s.”

“Yes, I’m going at once,” Mr. Povey confirmed.

“Oh!  I’m so glad!” Constance exclaimed.  Her face expressed a pure sympathy, uncomplicated by critical sentiments.  Mr. Povey rapidly bathed in that sympathy, and then decided that he must show himself a man of oak and iron.

“It’s always best to get these things done with,” said he, with stern detachment.  “I’ll just slip my overcoat on.”

“Here it is,” said Constance, quickly.  Mr. Povey’s overcoat and hat were hung on a hook immediately outside the room, in the passage.  She gave him the overcoat, anxious to be of service.

“I didn’t call you in here to be Mr. Povey’s valet,” said Mrs. Baines to herself with mild grimness; and aloud:  “I can’t stay in the shop long, Constance, but you can be there, can’t you, till Mr. Povey comes back?  And if anything happens run upstairs and tell me.”

“Yes, mother,” Constance eagerly consented.  She hesitated and then turned to obey at once.

“I want to speak to you first, my pet,” Mrs. Baines stopped her.  And her tone was peculiar, charged with import, confidential, and therefore very flattering to Constance.