"You're not," sobbed Mrs. Gray; "I know you're not. You've been deceiving me, you wicked thing, and I—I won't forgive you. You don't belong to the club at all—you know you don't."
"I tell you I'm the secretary, don't I?" persisted Gray.
"I don't—don't believe you. You've been tel—telling me stories, Jimmy. It's a sha—shame to tell me stories. You oughtn't to do it."
"Look here," said Gray, taking her in his arms; "do you want me to prove what I say? Do you?"
"Ye—yes," she sobbed.
"Then ask George. If you won't believe me, ask him."
Mrs. Gray's sobs ceased and she began to dry her eyes. Gray reached over and helped himself to a little more whisky. "Ask him," he said, taking a drink.
In a little while Mrs. Gray, very much ashamed of herself, put her arms about her husband's neck and kissed him.
"I'm very sorry, Jimmy," she said, "I do believe you."
Mrs. Gray didn't ask George, and her husband continued in his dangerous career of intemperance. It was a pity that he did so, for with the good start as a teetotaler he had got during George Early's residence, he might have reformed and prevented the trouble that came, as trouble always does when you look for it.