"Oh, how did he do it?"
Fibo did not like the pleased expression in Dreamikins' eyes. His face got very stern and grave.
"He went to the first public-house he could get to, and then he got roaringly and disgustingly drunk. He would come home at night, and throw chairs at his wife, and smash them to pieces, and nearly kill her. The next day he would go off and drink again, and behave like a madman. He would generally end by fighting some ones and then would be taken off to the police station, and be locked up. Then, after a time, he would come home, and be good again—as good as gold—till he got tired of being good, and then would have another burst of drinking. And at last, in one of these wicked drunken fits, he went home and threw his dear little baby out of the window, and killed it; and then he kicked his wife downstairs, and she broke her neck. He was tried for murder, and was hanged."
"Oh, Fibo!" Dreamikins gave a shudder. "And will I get as bad as him?"
"The principle is the same," said Fibo gravely. "You get tired of being good, and you then have a real wicked day which you thoroughly enjoy. I've known one or two such days in your life before. It won't do, my Dreamikins; you must stop yourself before it's too late."
Dreamikins lay back on her cushions with soft dreamy eyes and the most angelic expression of face.
"You see, Fibo dear," she said at last, "it's best not to try to be too good, and then you don't get tired so quick!"
"Well, I must say I don't think I've ever found you too good."
"Haven't you really? But then you don't know what goes on inside me—Cherubine pulling me one way and Satan the other. Why, I'm nearly teared in two pieces."
Fibo began to laugh, and his lecture ended.