“No, no, by and by, Figgins,” I said, stopping him on his way to the bell; “by and by, when we have had our little chat. You know money is a great responsibility, and I sometimes think that you do not quite realise this with regard to your dear wife; you know, when the husband makes money just in order to gamble it away it means that he and his self-respect are rapidly going down the hill together. It is quite time you began to think about your old age, and what would happen to the boys if the bread-winner were called away.” “I wish you would tell me what it is,” said Mr. Figgins. “If you are rehearsing a play I will help you, but I must have the book and know all about it--you can’t go on like this.” “But I have told you,” I insisted. “I am district-visiting and you are in my parish, so I have to take you on a certain day and you have to sit and listen to me. I am going to poke all round your room presently and leave some literature.” That really angered him, and he became dreadfully polite. At last we compromised, he agreeing to take me home in his motor if I would stop and have tea first, but I was pledged to leave his income and his habits alone. Mrs. Figgins came in while we were having tea. We explained what I had come about. She said it was a thing that ought to be done more, that she was right down glad I had spoke straight to Figgins, and she hoped now that he would begin and make a change for the better. “But, my dear,” she said, “what we want here is a mothers’ meeting. It is all very well to tell one lot of mothers not to give a new-born baby stewed rhubarb, but it is equally necessary to tell mothers like Mrs. Van Dieman not to give their infants raw theory. I have to hold the next meeting of the Parents’ Guild in my house. Will you come and do a little district-visiting there?” I promised her that although James would not wish me to initiate any form of outrage, I would back her up in any she liked to commit. The meeting was held during the next week. I arrived early, and we awaited events together. Presently the door-bell rang. We peeped vulgarly through the window. There was a terrible thing upon the door-step--all face, like my enemy the fish before it is filleted--it had the same lifeless eye, and a flat hat balanced on the top like a sheet of note-paper. It was looking round in a dreadful vacant manner waiting for admission. I remembered a story heard in my infancy about some children who had a stepmother with a glass eye and a wooden tail. We were told how their flesh used to creep with horror when they heard her coming upstairs. In another minute she would be in the room. We darted to our places and listened with beating hearts to the pat-pat on the stairs. “Mrs. Flockson,” said the maid.