“So there is,” said May. “Fine clothes an’ fine relations.” She laughed spitefully. “Shut up, May,” said Ada. “She never said she ’ad a coopy. It was Bob wot started it.” “That’s right,” said Bob, red in the face. “I said it, an’ where’s the ’arm?” “No ’arm at all,” said his aunt silkily. “If the troof was known, I spec’ she ’ad two or free cars.” Her husband suspended mastication and stared at Ann. Then he spoke through the cud. “Didjoo?” he demanded. “No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.” Uncle Tom nodded approval. “You were that,” he said emphatically. Ann breathed again. “Why, my ole dad thought ’imself mighty lucky to ’ave ’is own tip-cart, an’——” “Don’t be stoopid, pa,” said May. “Grandpa was only a common man.” Her father gasped. Here was parricide. “I mean,” said May sweetly, “he wasn’t a nurl.” “I’ll bet he was just as good,” said Ann. “So ’e was,” cried Uncle Tom. With an effort he emptied his mouth. “You ’ear?” he raved, turning upon May. “You ’ear, you undootiful girl? ’Ere’s a lady wot knows a nurl when she sees one an’ don’t ’ave to go to Boots’ Lendin’ Library to find out wot ’igh life means. An’ she says ’e was as good. ‘Common man’!” The iteration of the objectionable phrase re-pricked his piety. He wagged a cautionary forefinger. “You jus’ be careful, young woman. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above your station. Jus’ because you go orf to dances an’ cinemas o’ nights an’ keep a tame mug ’andy to buy you cheap sweets—that don’ make you no better than wot you are. _Ladies is born. . . ._” Never was enemy so hoist with his own petard. Never was the seasoning of bitterness so sloshed into the pot. Never was a silence so ominous as that which followed the reproof. May’s face was purple, her eyes narrowed to green points of steel. Aunt Harriet was sweating with indignation: her mouth worked. Ada looked scared. As though to belie a particularly hang-dog expression, Mr. Barnham muttered and snorted beneath his breath. Mr. Alcock sneered upon his finger-nails. Bob was smiling sheepishly. And the unconscious author of the unsavoury stew sat back regarding the company with eyes that saw nothing but a forgotten deference to authority awakened by the old lion’s roar. Ann tried not to tremble. Were there no lengths to which Satire would not go? Had Irony no mercy? God! What a tune they were calling! All hell was fiddling in the orchestra—and she had to pay . . . pay . . . . A sudden peal at the bell saved a situation which was under sentence of death. “That’s Mr. Mason,” said Ada. “I ’ope ’e’s brought Miss Gedge.” She rose and left the room. The cold, strained silence slid into the blessed hush of curiosity. Then— “_I ain’t nobody’s darlin’, I’m blue as can be,_” feelingly rendered by an indifferent baritone, floated into the room. “That’s ’im,” shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. “Come in, yer bounder. There ain’t no room, but we can’t keep you out.”