Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil's condemnation of flippancy, and he hastened to turn off the joke. "I'm quite serious," he said. "Butterflies are no good to nothing or nobody; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving." "Just like your view of things, Peter," said Denzil. "Good morning, madam." This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaborate courtesy. Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogation in each eye. For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavoring not to see the question. He shifted uneasily on his stool. His wife coughed grimly. He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook his head in a horizontal direction. It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl towered over Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes. She measured half an inch less. It was quite an optical illusion. "Mr. Crowl," said Mrs. Crowl, "then I'll tell him." "No, no, my dear, not yet," faltered Peter helplessly; "leave it to me." "I've left it to you long enough. You'll never do nothing. If it was a question of provin' to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don't consarn no mortal soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue 'ud run thirteen to the dozen. But when it's a matter of takin' the bread out o' the mouths o' your own children, you ain't got no more to say for yourself than a lamppost. Here's a man stayin' with you for weeks and weeks--eatin' and drinkin' the flesh off your bones--without payin' a far----" "Hush, hush, mother; it's all right," said poor Crowl, red as fire. Denzil looked at her dreamily. "Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?" he said. "Who then should I be alludin' to, Mr. Cantercot? Here's seven weeks come and gone, and not a blessed 'aypenny have I----" "My dear Mrs. Crowl," said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth with a pained air, "why reproach me for your neglect?" "My neglect! I like that!" "I don't," said Denzil, more sharply. "If you had sent me in the bill you would have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of these details?" "We ain't so grand down here. People pays their way--they don't get no bills," said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn. Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse's voice. "It's three pounds fourteen and eight-pence, if you're so anxious to know," Mrs. Crowl resumed. "And there ain't a woman in the Mile End Road as 'ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quartern and landlords clamorin' for rent every Monday morning almost afore the sun's up and folks draggin' and slidderin' on till their shoes is only fit to throw after brides, and Christmas comin' and seven-pence a week for schoolin'!"