"I'm no such thing," declared Mrs. Raeburn. "Nice thing that a friend of father's can't come and have a cup of tea without your carrying on like a mad thing."
"Not so much 'cup of tea,' Mrs. Raeburn. It's not the tea I minds. It's while the kettle's boiling as I objects to."
"You're drunk," said the wife scornfully.
"And it's —— lucky I am drunk. You're enough to make a fellow drunk with your la-di-da behavior. Why, God help me, Florrie, you've been powdering your face. Let me get hold of the——. I'll learn him to come mucking round another man's wife."
On the very next day Mr. Timpany came to tea for the last time. Possibly Mrs. Raeburn had told her husband it was to be the last time, for he did not put in an appearance. Ruby had gone out by permission. May was secured by a fortified nursing-chair. Alfie was away on some twilight adventure of bells and string. Edie was immerged in a neighboring basement with two friends, a plate of jam, and the cordial teasing of the friends' brother, young Bert; and Jenny, urged on by a passionate inquisitiveness, crept along the passage and listened to the following conversation:
"You're wasted here, Flo, wasted—a fine woman like you is absolutely wasted. Why won't you come away with me? Come away to-night, I'll always be good to you."
"The children," said their mother.
"They'll get on all right by themselves. Bring the little one—what's her name, with fair hair and dark eyes?"
"Jenny."
"Yes, Jenny. Bring her with you. I don't mind."