"And Stephen, I imagine, will depend on us." "Probably. Do you hear what Minnie says, Mother?" The old woman's hands knitted fiercely, while her sharp yellow face crumpled into an expression half peevish, half resigned. "I hear what you both say, and I think I've got enough to worry me without you talking about Stephen coming home." Her voice was so thin that even Minnie, not hearing, had missed the point. As for the man outside, he was still struggling with emotion, and had caught but a word here and there. Kate's voice was jagged like a saw and carried farther. It was now that he really began to hear. "Do you suppose he's made any money out there?" "Did you ever hear of Stephen making money anywhere?" "If he has he ought to be made to pay something to the housekeeping. It's only fair." "If he's made anything," said Minnie, "he's spent it all. That's why he's coming. Look at the supper!" The table before her was laid for the evening meal. She pointed to the heels of two loaves, a knuckle of ham, a piece of cheese, and some water in a glass jug. Oatmeal simmered on a reeking oil-stove in a corner of the room. "How much will it cost to keep him?" Kate's narrow, peaked face was raised in calculation. Kate's eyes became mean homes for meaner thoughts of which she was visibly unashamed. "Ten shillings a week at the very least. Fifty-two weeks--that's twenty-six pounds a year. Or probably fifteen shillings--a man eats more than a woman, at any rate more butcher's meat--that's thirty-nine pounds. That's only what he _eats_," she added significantly. "_What_ did you say, Mother?" The old lady raised her voice, and the man outside took hope. "I say I think you're both very unfeeling. For all you know, poor fellow, he may be quite reformed." "He may be. I know the chances are he won't," said Kate. "How do you know anything about it, my dear?" "I asked Dr. Minify. He has a wide enough experience of these cases." Minnie turned fiercely round. "And what made you go and blab to him about it? I think you might wash your dirty linen at home." "It's only what you'd have done yourself." "Not to him." "Why not?" There was terror in Minnie's face. "He knows the Tanquerays." "Well--it's your own fault. You went on about it till it got on my nerves, and the anxiety was more than I could bear. The porridge will be boiling over." "Well?" "Well, I can't mind porridge and my knitting at the same time." Minnie threw herself back, pushing her chair with her feet. She rose and trailed sulkily across to the stove. As she moved a wisp of red hair, loosened from its coil, clung to her sallow neck. She was slip-shod and untidy. She removed the porridge abstractedly. "What did he say?" she asked. "He was extremely kind and sympathetic. He treated it as a disease. He said that in nine cases out of ten recovery is impossible." "Well, _I_ could have told you that. Anything more?"