Butson saw plainly enough, but for the present cared not at all. He had won his game, and for a little time unwonted plenty and comfort satisfied him. Though he was not insensible that this was a place wherein he must do something more to make himself absolute master. Uncle Isaac got the news on Tuesday evening, when he came for supper. For a week or ten days he had been little seen at Harbour Lane, because of an urgent job involving overtime, a thing not to be neglected in these lean years. He had suspected nothing, moreover, supposing Butson to be so often attracted to Nan’s by the mere prospect of supper. Now, when he was told, he was near as astonished as Johnny had been. He sat at random—fortunately on a chair—and opened mouth and eyes. But ere his mouth closed he had resolved on his own course. The thing was done, and past undoing. He sprang to his feet, and seized one of Butson’s hands—the nearest—in both his own. “Mr. Butson!” he said: “Butson! Me ole friend ’Enery—me dearest ’opes an’ wishes is rewarded. Nan, you’re done most dootiful the confidentialest o’ my intentions. For what was my confidential intentions? ’Ere, I says, confidential to meself, ’ere is my niece, a young woman as I wish every possible good fortun’ to, though I sez it meself: a very sootable young woman o’ some little property with two children an’ a business. Two children an’ a business was my reflection. What’s more, ’ere’s my very respected friend Butson—than which none more so—fash’nable by ’abit an’ connexions, with no children an’ no business. Them considerations bein’ thus what follers? What’s the cause an’ pediment to ’oly matrimony? Far be it from me, sez I, to dictate. But I’ll take ’im in to tea, any’ow. An’ I’ll do whatever else is ne’ssry. Yus, I’ll do it, sez I, as is my dooty. _I’ll_ work it if it’s mortal possible. Whether grateful or not _I’ll_ do it. An’ I done it.” Uncle Isaac punched his left palm with his right fist, and looked from husband to wife, with the eye of the righteous defying censure. Nan flushed and smiled, and indeed she was relieved. No consideration of her unaccustomed secrecy had given her more doubt than that it must shut her off from Uncle Isaac’s advice; loss enough in itself, and probably an offence to him. “This,” Uncle Isaac went on, taking his chair once more and drawing it up to the table: “this is a great an’ ’appy occasion, an’ as sich it should be kep’ up. Nan, is there sich a thing as a drop o’ sperrits in the ’ouse?”