MRS. DOWEY. ‘You are very welcome. Just wait’--the ostentation of this!--‘till I get out of my astrakhan--and my muff--and my gloves--and’ (it is the bonnet’s turn now) ‘my Excelsior.’ At last we see her in the merino (a triumph). MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘You’ve given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.’ DOWEY. ‘It’s her that has given it to me, missis.’ MRS. DOWEY. ‘Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,’ waggling her fists. ‘The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!’ Vehemently: ‘I swear by God that we had champagny wine.’ There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it: ‘And to them as doubts my word--here’s the cork.’ She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table. MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘I’m sure!’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.’ MRS. DOWEY. ‘Me!’ DOWEY. ‘Come, come, ladies,’ in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist; ‘if you say another word, I’ll kiss the lot of you.’ There is a moment of pleased confusion. MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Really, them sodgers!’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘The kilties is the worst!’ MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘I’m sure,’ heartily, ‘we don’t grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.’ DOWEY. ‘Yes, it’s the end,’ with a troubled look at his old lady; ‘I must be off in ten minutes.’ The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door. MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘Poor thing! But we must run, for you’ll be having some last words to say to her.’ DOWEY. ‘I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.’ He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house. MRS. TWYMLEY. ‘It’s the best way.’ In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. ‘Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.’ All three present him with the cigarettes. MRS. MICKLEHAM. ‘A scraping, as one might say.’ THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. ‘The heart,’ enigmatically, ‘is warm though it may not be gold-tipped.’ DOWEY. ‘You bricks!’ THE LADIES. ‘Good luck, cocky.’ DOWEY. ‘The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but--but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.’ It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says ‘Hell!’ to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls. ‘Old lady.’ She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow. ‘Is it time?’ An encouraging voice answers her. ‘No, no, not yet. I’ve left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.’ ‘All is ended.’ ‘Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.’