“Has anybody complained?” she yelled, going up half an octave at each word. “Well! Well! Everybody ’as their rows, don’t they? Move on yourself. Oh! you _brute!_” Then we heard a scuffle, more words, a torrent of tears and abuse. But it was all quiet at last; the short spell of silence between the last cab and the venders of Sunday papers. _“Referee!” “Lloyd’s!” “Weekly Dispatch!”_ The men went bawling along the pavements beneath. Jimmy, who had collapsed after the row, opened his eyes again. “Give me a whisky,” he said. “Fill up. I’ll say when.” As I was pouring the water, and waiting for him to stop me, he murmured enthusiastically: “How good Dot and Lottie Mack were in that laughing duet. Lottie married an earl. I wonder what became of Dot.” When I took the tumbler and whisky and water to the side of the bed, he was dead. We fetched Mrs. Morey to lay him out. She was ghoulishly curious about the funeral, and kept me half an hour while she told me about her father’s. “’E belonged to a club, don’t yer see, and when ’e died there was twenty pound. My Bill wanted to blow it. But I ses no. It was ’is and ’e should ’av it. We ’ad mourning coaches to fetch all the people from their own doors. There was mutes--yer don’t often see them now--and weepers, and feathers in the ’orses’ ’eads. An’ yer should ’a’ seen the tea we set down to when we come ’ome from the funeral! We ’ad thin bread and butter, and winkles and three sorts of cake. I felt so mad with Bill. ’E goes and clouts my little Jim’s ’ead, jest because the innercent child said as ’e wished grandfathers ’ud die every day, so as we might ’ave sich a bustin’ tea. It was only natural in the child. Rose Adkins--she’s my brother’s wife--took Bill’s part. I didn’t forgit it neither. A nice one to talk, _she_ wur! We was ’avin’ a few words, months after, and I ses to ’er: “‘You ’ussy! ’Ow dare you talk to me?’ I ses. ‘’Ow many slices of thin bread and butter did you eat at my poor father’s funeral tea? I saw you take ten with my own eyes.’ _That_ fetched ’er. ‘Be off,’ I ses, ‘and don’t ever show yer brazen face in my door agen.’” * * * * * Well, we buried Jimmy. I rode with him, in a dreadful conveyance they call a Shillibeer, to Finchley. When I went back to the Inn and began to square up his affairs, the water bed was missing. We had clubbed together and hired that water bed for him before Queenie’s deception. I heard long afterward that Mrs. Morey had pawned it at the pawnbroker’s at the corner of Green Street. No doubt Bill, for once, was too strong for her. About two months afterward there was a faint tap at my door one night. When I opened it I saw a woman standing outside. How shall I describe her?