“Baines!” Diverted in spite of herself, Martha Jane swung round as if on a pivot. “What, he wasn’t in t’ same street!” “Like enough—seeing he was streets ahead. A perfect picture he was, wi’ his buttonhole and frock-coat!” “A barber’s block, that’s about it, and near about as much sense!” Martha Jane had burst into the room a Bacchanalian indeed, but at least with some laudable purpose hidden behind. Now she was nothing better than a virulent shrew. “And a buttonhole at a burying!” she concluded, with scorn. “Real nasty, I call that!” Any further support that might have been forthcoming on behalf of the elegant Baines was deprived of its chance by Mrs. Clapham. “Say what you’ve got to say, Martha Jane,” she commanded, “and get it by wi’. I can’t stand a deal to-night.” With a sharp twist the pivot twirled its occupant back to her former position. “Ay, well, it’s this, then,” she began in a quieter tone. Drawing herself up, she folded her hands, and a certain dignity showed in her figure. “I heard Emma there say as she meant having Tibbie’s barns, and I come in at the risk of a snub to ask as you wouldn’t let her.” “That’s it ... that’s right ... nay, now, you mustn’t let her!...” Encouraged by this plain speaking, the Chorus broke into fresh protest. Emma opened her lips, but before she could speak, the charwoman put up her hand for silence. “It’s Martha Jane I’m axing to speak—not nobody else.... Tell me if there’s owt else you want to say, and then get about your business.” Obvious hesitancy came over Martha Jane at that, and she coloured slowly and dropped her eyes. With the toe of a broken shoe she traced a series of patterns on the floor. “I don’t know as there’s owt more anybody need say,” she began lamely. “All on us know Emma’s isn’t the spot for kids.” “You’re that well qualified to speak, aren’t you—you wi’ neither husband nor child!” Emma’s smile was deadly in the extreme. “And you wi’ your repitation an’ all, as perhaps one hadn’t ought to mention,” she added pensively. “Never you mind my repitation!” Martha Jane flashed back at her. “If I don’t mind it, I don’t see why anybody else should.... Folks wi’ titles and suchlike manage to think well of me, all the same!” (A snort from Mrs. James). “But what I’m here to say,” she added quickly, “and with the whole place backing me up, is that you oughtn’t to have them children of Tibbie’s.” The pivot turned her half-left now, facing her straight at Emma. Her voice steadied again as she warmed to her subject. “D’you think any on us has forgotten what you made o’ Poor Stephen?” she demanded firmly. “He’s dead and gone now, poor lad, but we remember all right. What, I can see him now, with his poor, starved-looking little face! Seems to me, looking back, it was queer he come through at all; ay, and he wouldn’t ha’ done, neither, but for that good lass o’ Mrs. Clapham’s!”