"What’s she wanter come to our ’ouse for at all? She comes round in ’er carriage, she does. Oo, you oughter see the funny cross-eyed coachman what she’s got! Oo, and she don’t ’arf wear no rings, neether. An’ my mother says you sent ’er, cause she tole my mother so, and what does she wanter come fussin’ round _our_ place for—settin’ the neighbours talkin’? An’, ’ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, she’s gointer take me to the London ’Ippodrome." "You leave it to Mrs. Vesey," said Baffin subsequently. "_We_ can’t manage Prudence, but Mrs. Vesey can. _She’ll_ fix up Prudence. Consulted her lawyer yesterday.... Oh, they’ll settle that nobleman all right." Not long after this conversation Prudence’s visits to the studio were temporarily suspended. Prudence was out of town. Mr. Baffin would explain to inquiring spirits that she had taken it in her head to go on tour as a chorus girl. "A cheap sort of holiday, don’t you know!" In due course Prudence returned to town. Her first professional visit was paid to Baffin, and it pained me to notice that her very first observation caused that gentleman to blush. "I ’ave got some queer friends, I ave. What you think some saucy ’ound ’as done _now_? Sent along a _cradle_ to my ’ouse! Do you know ’oo it was, Mr. Baffin? I bin away, you know—nursin’ my sick uncle at Ramsgate, you know—an’ it come while I was down there. I on’y got back from Yarmouth yesterday, an’ the first thing I see was this joke. Silly joke, wasn’t it, Mr. Baffin? ’Cos Mrs. Vesey was at _our_ ’ouse. "An’, ’ere, I say, Mr. Baffin, my gran’pa died when I was nursin’ him at Margate, an’ there’s some money comin’ to me, on’y it’s goin’ to be took care of for me, so’s I can dror a little every week. An’ my mother’s makin’ me a noo ’at. "’Ere, an’ I can’t sit for you be the day any more, Mr. Baffin, ’cos my mother’s lonely, an’—an’—I don’t like to leave my mother be ’erself all day. I got to go home to my—my mother now; an’ I can come at eleven in the mornin’, and go away to dinner, an’ come back in the afternoon and stay till teatime—see? On’y I can’t stop later than teatime, an’ I can’t stop all day, ’cos I don’t like leavin’ my mother, an’ I got to go back an’—an’ ’ave a look at ’er, like—see? Oo-_er_, I _am_ late, Mr. Baffin: I ought to ’ave been back to my mother ’arf a hour ago. Oh, do let me go, Mr. Baffin! My—my mother might get very ill if I didn’t get back to her punctual." "Lying little fathead!" observed Mr. Baffin later. Prudence’s faith in our simplicity remained unshaken. "Time you went home to your mother now," Baffin would assert at fitting intervals. And Prudence would answer, "Oo-er, yes; my mother ’ll be waitin’ for me. I mustn’t keep my mother waitin’!" The value of her services grew less (if possible) at every sitting. Her capacity for wriggling returned to her with unabated force: the giggles came back, too, and the original fund of anecdote.