"You belong to that Methody lot," she mildly sneered. "I thought I seed you talking to them white-chokers."
"I do," said Jock.
"And I make no doubt you think yourself very clever."
"Well," he vouchsafed, "I can splice a rope, shave a head, cure a wart or a boil, and tell a fine woman with any man in this town. Not to mention boxing, as I've given up on account of my religion."
"I was handsome once," said Mrs Clowes, with apparent, but not real, inconsequence. "But I'm all run to fat, like. I've played Portia in my time. But now it's as much as I can do to get through with Maria Martin or Belladonna."
"Fat!" Jock protested. "Fat! I wouldn't have an ounce taken off ye for fifty guineas."
He was so enthusiastic that Mrs Clowes blushed.
"What's this about hell-fire?" she questioned. "I often think of it—I'm a lonely woman, and I often think of it."
"You lonely!" Jock protested again. "With all them childer?"
"Ay!"