“You see, Mr. Clarence, what I’ve got to put up with,” said Mrs. Coombes.

“He is a bit hasty,” said Mr. Clarence judicially.

“He ain’t got the slightest sense of our position,” said Mrs. Coombes; “that’s what I complain of.  He cares for nothing but his old shop; and if I have a bit of company, or buy anything to keep myself decent, or get any little thing I want out of the housekeeping money, there’s disagreeables.  ‘Economy’ he says; ‘struggle for life,’ and all that.  He lies awake of nights about it, worrying how he can screw me out of a shilling.  He wanted us to eat Dorset butter once.  If once I was to give in to him—­there!”

“Of course,” said Jennie.

“If a man values a woman,” said Mr. Clarence, lounging back in the arm-chair, “he must be prepared to make sacrifices for her.  For my own part,” said Mr. Clarence, with his eye on Jennie, “I shouldn’t think of marrying till I was in a position to do the thing in style.  It’s downright selfishness.  A man ought to go through the rough-and-tumble by himself, and not drag her—­”

“I don’t agree altogether with that,” said Jennie.  “I don’t see why a man shouldn’t have a woman’s help, provided he doesn’t treat her meanly, you know.  It’s meanness—­”

“You wouldn’t believe,” said Mrs. Coombes.  “But I was a fool to ’ave ’im.  I might ’ave known.  If it ’adn’t been for my father, we shouldn’t ’ave ’ad not a carriage to our wedding.”

“Lord! he didn’t stick out at that?” said Mr. Clarence, quite shocked.

“Said he wanted the money for his stock, or some such rubbish.  Why, he wouldn’t have a woman in to help me once a week if it wasn’t for my standing out plucky.  And the fusses he makes about money—­comes to me, well, pretty near crying, with sheets of paper and figgers.  ’If only we can tide over this year,’ he says, ‘the business is bound to go.’  ’If only we can tide over this year,’ I says; ’then it’ll be, if only we can tide over next year.  I know you,’ I says.  ’And you don’t catch me screwing myself lean and ugly.  Why didn’t you marry a slavey?’ I says, ’if you wanted one—­instead of a respectable girl,’ I says.”

So Mrs. Coombes.  But we will not follow this unedifying conversation further.  Suffice it that Mr. Coombes was very satisfactorily disposed of, and they had a snug little time round the fire.  Then Mrs. Coombes went to get the tea, and Jennie sat coquettishly on the arm of Mr. Clarence’s chair until the tea-things clattered outside.  “What was that I heard?” asked Mrs. Coombes playfully, as she entered, and there was badinage about kissing.  They were just sitting down to the little circular table when the first intimation of Mr. Coombes’ return was heard.

This was a fumbling at the latch of the front door.

“’Ere’s my lord,” said Mrs. Coombes.  “Went out like a lion and comes back like a lamb, I’ll lay.”