Mrs. Purkiss still visited her sister, but Jenny was not allowed to associate with Percy or Claude, both more pasty-faced than ever, because Percy was going to be a missionary and Claude was suspected of premature dissipation, having been discovered kissing the servant in the bathroom. Mrs. Raeburn, in the jubilee of her age, was still a handsome woman, and was admired even by Jenny for her smartness. She still worried about the future of her children. She was more than ever conscious of her husband's inferiority and laughed over most of the facts of her life. May's back, however, and Jenny's perpetual riotousness caused her many misgivings. But Alfie was doing well, and Edie seemed happy, making dresses over at Brixton. There had been no recurrence of Mr. Timpany, and she now viewed that episode much as she would have regarded a trifling piece of domestic negligence. As for the Miss Horners, their visit had long faded absolutely from her mind. It would have taken a very great emotional crisis to inspire such another speech as she made to them seventeen years ago. Charlie still snored beside her, as he had snored in sequel to seven or eight thousand nightly undressings. She still saw to the washing, added up the accounts, bought a new dress in the spring and a new bonnet in the autumn. She still meant to read the paper this week, but never had time, and every night she hoped that all would go smooth. This habit of hope was to her what the candle-lit chapter of a Bible with flower-stained pages or counterpane prayers or dreams of greatness are to minds differently constituted. Her life was by no means drab, for she went often to the theater, and occasionally to the saloon bar of a discreet public-house, where, in an atmosphere of whisky and Morocco leather, she would sometimes listen to Mrs. Purkiss's doubts of Jenny's behavior, but more often tell diverting tales of Charlie. Such was Hagworth Street, when, on a cold Sunday in the front of May, Edie came over from Brixton. She looked pale and anxious as she sat for a while in the kitchen twisting black kid gloves round her fingers. "How's Brixton, Edie?" asked her mother. "Grand." "You've not been up to see us for a long time." "No-o-o," agreed the eldest daughter. "Busy?" "Not so very. Only you never know when you will be. I'll go upstairs and take my things off. Come with us Jenny," she said, turning to her sister. "There's a cheek. Whatever next?" "Oh, you are hateful! Come on up." Jenny, with every appearance of unwillingness, followed Edie upstairs, and flung herself down on the bed they had once shared. "Don't be all night," she protested, as she watched Edie staring aimlessly at herself in the glass. "Jenny," said the latter suddenly, "I done it." "Done what?" "Myself, I suppose." "What d'ye mean?" "You know," said Edie. "Oh, yes, I know, that's why I'm asking." "You remember that fellow I was going about with?" "Bert Harding?" "Yes, Bert."