She was rather a juvenile sort of bride: so much so, in fact, that a civilised inquirer might have supposed the baby on her breast and the ring upon her finger to be mere playthings. It was to be gathered, from her opening statement, that she was inured to the married state, and that it held no terror for her. "If ’e comes it over me," she explained, "I gives ’im a shove in the marf." She was an attractive child—rather freckled and very shrill; but having cheerful eyes. "What you recommend me to do about Mine, Doctor? ’E’s queer." DOCTOR BRINK: How queer? THE BRIDE: Queer in ’is ’ead. Won’t talk to nobody. Won’t eat. ’E’s learnin isself to write short’and. DOCTOR BRINK: But I think that’s rather sensible. THE BRIDE: More sensible if he was to bring ’ome some money. ’E’s a chair-packer’s labourer. What’s the good o’ short’and to a chair-packer’s labourer? DOCTOR BRINK: Perhaps he has ambitions. THE BRIDE (_gloomily_): Not ’im. ’E’s got the sulks. If you go an’ give it a big name like that, ’e’ll never get better. I ain’t even let ’im know I’ve come to you—’e’s ser easy encouraged. What ’e wants is a dose o’ your pale yaller—even my ole gran’ma can’t drink that, and she’s been takin’ medsin since _so_ ’igh. That’s what ’e wants: a dose o’ your pale yaller and a flip be’ind the ear. DOCTOR BRINK: How old is your husband? THE BRIDE: Old enough to do some work. ’E’ll be eighteen in March. DOCTOR BRINK: He’s out of employment, then? THE BRIDE (_stiffly_): Well, ’e ain’t out of employment, on’y ’e don’t go to work. There ain’t no call for ’im to go, not unless ’e wants to. We’re independent. DOCTOR BRINK: Indeed? THE WIFE: Yus. We’ve ’ad some luck, through the misfortune of losin’ ’is father. There’s a matter of two ’underd pound at the lawyer’s, and more to come, they say. DOCTOR BRINK: It’s a pity he can’t find some work to do. Two hundred pounds won’t last for ever, you know. THE WIFE: There ain’t no call for ’im to look for work. When the money comes we’re goin’ inter business. DOCTOR BRINK: Oh! What sort of business? THE WIFE: The ’ardware, Doctor: joiners’ bits and carpenters’ tools, and knives and ’and-saws. It’s bin a fancy of ’is’n since boy’ood up. That’s the meaning of this short’and. ’E’s educatin’ ’isself for the position. DOCTOR BRINK: Well, of course, an ironmonger isn’t bound to know shorthand; but—— THE WIFE: Not ironmongery, Doctor—the ’ardware: fine edge tools and joiners’ necessaries, and so forth. DOCTOR BRINK: But why object to this shorthand? After all, it keeps him out of mischief. THE WIFE: It ain’t the short’and I object to. It’s him. Forever at home: forever makin’ his scratches. Forever lookin’ sulky and cleanin’ ’is nails. Never a word to say to me, nor so much as a look for the child. ’E was ’armless enough when I married ’im. Full of life ’e was in them days. Many’s the ’idin’ ’e’s give me!