The father burst into a loud roar of laughter, and laughed till the tears were running down his face. Spelt would have joined him but for the reverence he had for Mattie, who sat unmoved on her throne at the head of the table, looking down with calm benignity on her father's passion, as if laughter were a weakness belonging to grown-up men, in which they were to be condescendingly indulged by princesses, and little girls in general. "Well, how's the world behaving to you, Spelt?" asked the bookseller, after various ineffectual attempts to stop his laughter by the wiping of his eyes. "The world has never behaved ill to me, thank God," answered the tailor. "Now, don't you trouble yourself to say that. You've got nobody to thank but yourself." "But I like to thank God," said Mr. Spelt, apologetically. "I forgot that you wouldn't like it." "Pshaw! pshaw! I don't mind it from you, for I believe you're fool enough to mean what you say. But, tell me this, Spelt--did you thank God when your wife died?" "I tried hard not. I'm afraid I did, though," answered Spelt, and sat staring like one who has confessed, and awaits his penance. The bookseller burst into another loud laugh, and slapped his hand on his leg. "You have me there, I grant, Spelt." But his face grew sober as he added, in a lower but still loud voice-- "I was thinking of my wife, not of yours. Folk say she was a rum un." "She was a splendid woman," said the tailor. "She weighed twice as much as I do, and her fist--" Here he doubled up his own slender hand, laid it on the table, and stared at it, with his mouth full of muffin. Then, with a sigh, he added, "She was rather too much for me, sometimes. She was a splendid woman, though, when she was sober." "And what was she when she was drunk?" This grated a little on the tailor's feelings, and he answered with spirit--- "A match for you or any other man, Mr. Kitely." The bookseller said, "Bravo, Spelt!" and said no more. They went on with their tea for some moments in silence. "Well, princess!" said Mr. Kitely at last, giving an aimless poke to the conversation. "Well, father," returned Mattie. Whereupon her father turned to Spelt and said, as if resuming what had passed before-- "Now tell me honestly, Spelt, do you believe there is a God?" "I don't doubt it." "And I do. Will you tell me that, if there was a God, he would have a fool like that in the church over the way there, to do nothing but read the service, and a sermon he bought for eighteenpence, and--" "From you?" asked Spelt, with an access of interest. "No, no. I was too near the church for that. But he bought it of Spelman, in Holywell Street. Well, what was I saying?" "You was telling us what Mr. Potter did for his money."