Barthwick.  Oh, cook!

Mrs. Barthwick.  Of course!  It’s perfectly detestable to me to suspect anybody.

Barthwick.  It is not a question of one’s feelings.  It’s a question of justice.  On principle——­

Mrs. Barthwick.  I should n’t be a bit surprised if the charwoman knew something about it.  It was Laura who recommended her.

Barthwick. [Judicially.] I am going to have Mrs. Jones up.  Leave it to me; and—­er—­remember that nobody is guilty until they’re proved so.  I shall be careful.  I have no intention of frightening her; I shall give her every chance.  I hear she’s in poor circumstances.  If we are not able to do much for them we are bound to have the greatest sympathy with the poor. [Mrs. Jones comes in.] [Pleasantly.] Oh! good morning, Mrs. Jones.

Mrs. Jones. [Soft, and even, unemphatic.] Good morning, sir!  Good morning, ma’am!

Barthwick.  About your husband—­he’s not in work, I hear?

Mrs. Jones.  No, sir; of course he’s not in work just now.

Barthwick.  Then I suppose he’s earning nothing.

Mrs. Jones.  No, sir, he’s not earning anything just now, sir.

Barthwick.  And how many children have you?

Mrs. Jones.  Three children; but of course they don’t eat very much sir. [A little silence.]

Barthwick.  And how old is the eldest?

Mrs. Jones.  Nine years old, sir.

Barthwick.  Do they go to school?

Mrs. Jones, Yes, sir, they all three go to school every day.

Barthwick. [Severely.] And what about their food when you’re out at work?

Mrs. Jones.  Well, Sir, I have to give them their dinner to take with them.  Of course I ’m not always able to give them anything; sometimes I have to send them without; but my husband is very good about the children when he’s in work.  But when he’s not in work of course he’s a very difficult man.

Barthwick.  He drinks, I suppose?

Mrs. Jones.  Yes, Sir.  Of course I can’t say he does n’t drink, because he does.

Barthwick.  And I suppose he takes all your money?

Mrs. Jones.  No, sir, he’s very good about my money, except when he’s not himself, and then, of course, he treats me very badly.

Barthwick.  Now what is he—­your husband?

Mrs. Jones.  By profession, sir, of course he’s a groom.

Barthwick.  A groom!  How came he to lose his place?

Mrs. Jones.  He lost his place a long time ago, sir, and he’s never had a very long job since; and now, of course, the motor-cars are against him.

Barthwick.  When were you married to him, Mrs. Jones?