“And you’ve got the assurance to stand there and demand all that for keeping this young country lad for three days! Why, it’s my opinion you’re nothing more nor less than a female swindler.” “Martha!” she called. “Are you still listening, dear?” Porter Swan went on to the house of his own landlady, where he complained with bitterness of the absence of a mat and the condition of the wallpaper; she soothed him with a cup of tea so excellent that it stood outside the pale of criticism. In his room he used the hair-brush with considerable fierceness, a process that seemed to arouse ideas, for after a few moments’ consideration he changed his collar and fixed a necktie hitherto reserved for Sundays, Good Friday, and Christmas Day. Then he set out, whistling as he went, announcing cheerfully to his landlady that he would return in less than half an hour. If her husband came in, she was to beg him to stay up: Porter Swan would have something to relate to him. In Douglas Street he purchased a threepenny bunch of chrysanthemums—all white. At the door of the house in Railway Terrace he gave this time a deferential knock. The child answered it, crying to her mother that the man with the red face had called again. Swan asked the little girl whether she cared for flowers, and made a genial presentation. “Sorry to trouble you once more, ma’am,” he said, taking off his hat and throwing away the end of the cigar, “but I’ve come round to apologise. In the heat of argument I used one or two remarks I’d no business to use to any lady, and if you’ll kindly dismiss them from your mind I shall esteem it a favour.” “Look what he’s give me, mother,” said the child. “A sweet-faced little thing,” mentioned Swan, gazing down at the youngster sentimentally. “I’ve often thought that if ever I did get married— Only”—with a regretful shrug of the right shoulder—“I’ve never been lucky enough to find any one that cared for me. That accounts for my want of good manners.” “It is a bit noticeable,” she agreed. “It’s partly, too,” he contended, “the result of good nature. This young chap, he appealed to me to help him, and I, foolish like, consented to do my best. Never occurred to me that I should be no use at all when I set myself against the sharpness of a woman. When a woman’s got a clear head and a certain amount of good looks, no man has the leastest chance.” He looked around the passage for a new subject. “Is this the late lamented, may I ask, ma’am?” “That’s Lord Kitchener,” she answered, not displeased. “Would you care to come in and sit down for a bit? I expect you’re tired, running about all over the place. Martha dear, you come in, too, and let us see how nicely you can arrange the flowers. That,” entering the front room and pointing to a large, tinted photograph, “that was Mr. Rickards.” “Sensible sort of forehead,” said Porter Swan guardedly.