Byron, preoccupied, had yet a feeling, dim but friendly, for Mrs. Tom. Her essential motherliness appealed to one whose reality was masculine. He recognized in her a deep knowledge which made subterfuges and insincerity of no avail and, if he had not hitherto spoken freely to her, it was because there had been no need of speech. Mrs. Tom knew all the things of which Sabina had been so amazingly ignorant; and now Sabina, with what had seemed to him her wilful misinterpretation of facts, was gone. He saw no reason to conceal his immediate hope. "I shall be ’aving a wife soon," he said and, in saying it, showed that although he might have gauged correctly Mrs. Tom’s insight he had altogether missed her attitude. She turned sharply, staring at him. Accustomed to have her facts dressed in the clothing which obtained among her neighbours, his honesty repelled, even alienated, her. To know was one thing, to admit your knowledge was another and, in Mrs. Tom’s eyes, Byron’s candour was shocking and indecent. She stopped him with a hasty, "A wife? My dear, yer poor wife ain’t ’ardly cold yet?" But Byron’s perceptions had been dulled by the vividness of a secret hope. "Iss," he persisted, unable to realize his companion’s point of view, "but I’m gwine marry again." "Do-an ’ee say that then," implored Mrs. Tom, whose words were a loose robe under which her thoughts could move at ease, "it don’t sound vitty." Her earnestness, penetrating the mist of his illusions, reached the man. He looked up, puzzled and anxious. Had he gone too far? Had he said anything to arouse suspicion? Surely not, nevertheless he would be careful, he would even affect a show of grief. "I shall prettily miss S’bina," he began tractably, and Mrs. Tom nodded. If the words were uttered perfunctorily the phrasing was correct. "I do miss her," he continued, warming to the task. "I’m grievin’ now." With his feet stretched luxuriously, his body niched in the comfort of the big chair, he looked woebegone indeed. "Nobody knows what a day I’ve ’ad and she only just gone. Everybody I met stopped me and wanted to know a parcel of questions and me keep on tellin’ till I was muddled up. I didn’t knaw no more’n Adam what I were tellin’ of’m." Having offered his oblation he relapsed into a pleading sincerity. Not for years had he spoken of his affairs, but the change in them, the hope of a belated happiness, had unlocked his lips. "But still I can’t live wi’ that and soon I’m gwine marry—no stranger to you." Mrs. Tom put her annoyance into a shake of the frying-pan. "Now, my dear feller," she said, "hain’t a bit o’ good for ’ee to think anything about that. ’Tis so well to put it out of yer mind for ever. One thing I don’t want to knaw anything about it, bain’t right as I should and, another thing, I know she ’edn’t for you." Obliged to admit a knowledge she would have denied, she spoke with warning emphasis. "She never did think anything about yer, nor never will."