He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the postman.  Mrs. Gribble’s timid reminders concerning the flight of time and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears.  He jumped up suddenly and met the postman at the door.

“Has it come?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.

By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in his pockets.  Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the clock, and, snatching up his hat, set off down the road.

He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation.  Mrs. Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an irremediable loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

“That’s no good,” said her husband at last; “that won’t bring him back.”

“Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.

“Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble.  “That’s what you’re turning on the water-cart for, ain’t it?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely.  “I was thinking of——­”

“Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband.  “He wasn’t my uncle, poor chap, but I’ve been thinking of him, off and on, all day.  That bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness.  I brought it home as a treat.”

“I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table.  “When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress.  My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket—­”

“Go on,” said her husband, fiercely.  “Go on.  That’s just what I said:  trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever.”

“I’m ashamed to be seen out,” said Mrs. Gribble.

“A woman’s place is the home,” said Mr. Gribble; “and so long as I’m satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters.  So long as I am pleased, that’s everything.  What do you want to go dressing yourself up for?  Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman.”

“What are we going to do with all that money, then?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in trembling tones.

“That’ll do,” said Mr. Gribble, decidedly.  “That’ll do.  One o’ these days you’ll go too far.  You start throwing that money in my teeth and see what happens.  I’ve done my best for you all these years, and there’s no reason to suppose I sha’n’t go on doing so.  What did you say?  What!”

Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror.  “I—­I said—­it was my money,” she stammered.

Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her.  Then, kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the Grafton Arms.