But Mrs. Poskett was mercilessly emphatic. "It says that." Then she steered on another tack. "I ’m only a lone widow," she said, with an air of martyrdom. "If Alderman Poskett were alive, he ’d see you did the right thing by his wife. But I!—I must leave my once happy home!" "But—dash it and hang it—!" protested Sir Peter, struggling in the web that was being woven around him. "You cannot alter facts by swearing," said the widow. "Can I bear the sneers of a Pennymint? the arched eyebrows of a Brooke-Hoskyn? I cannot. I must let my beautiful house," with a side glance at him and considerable stress, "my freehold house. Let it to an undesirable tenant: a person with a mangle." A mangle in Pomander Walk! "Gobblessmysoul!" said the Admiral. Also he had been set thinking. Freehold, eh? "To be sure, the expense of moving is nothing," proceeded Mrs. Poskett, airily, "when one has Four-hundred a year in the Funds. But oh! my lovely furniture will be chipped! and, oh! how shall I part from my friends?" The Admiral was moved. He was undeniably moved. A freehold house, Four-hundred a year in the Funds, and lovely furniture.—And, mind you, the widow was buxom; he himself had described her as a "Dam fine woman." As she stood there in tearful confusion, she looked distinctly agreeable; plump and comfortable. To be sure, the sun had gone down. "But it’s not so bad as that?" said the Admiral, with something approaching sympathy. "It’s worse!" cried Mrs. Poskett. "And that innocent cat, Sempronius!—What will he say? He took a chill on Saturday and he’s lying before the kitchen fire wrapped up in a piece of flannel. When I move, the change will kill him. Oh, why did n’t you leave him to drown?" she sobbed aloud. The Admiral was much stirred. A woman’s tears always bowled him over. He could stand anything but that. "Dash it and hang it, Ma’am, don’t cry!" "It is n’t as if I was older," sobbed Mrs. Poskett. "I could be much older! But I’m young enough to have a tender heart!" She mastered herself with an heroic effort; swallowed her sobs; drove back her tears; and stood before him, the picture of stoic calm, of noble resignation. "But never mind! I will be brave! You—you—shall—not—see—me—weep!" Then she howled. Sir Peter was indescribably distressed. "But—Gobblessmysoul!—" he stammered—"what am I to do with Jim, and the flagstaff, and the brass gun, and the thrush, and the sweet peas?" and, pointing to his house, "What am I to do with Number One?" Mrs. Poskett raised one tear-bedewed eye from her handkerchief. "Knock a door through and make one house of them!" she exclaimed, as if sweeping away an absurdity. "Oh, these paltry details!" Then she lifted her face to his with a smile. Thus does the sun look when it emerges from behind a rain-cloud. "Sweet peas? What could be more appropriate? Ain’t I Pamela Poskett? and ain’t you Peter?"