"No, no, my dear, not yet," faltered Peter, helplessly; "leave it to me."
"I've left it to you long enough. You'll never do nothing. If it was a question of provin' to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don't consarn no mortal soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue'ud run thirteen to the dozen. But when it's a matter of takin' the bread out o' the mouths o' your own children, you ain't got no more to say for yourself than a lamp-post. Here's a man stayin' with you for weeks and weeks—eatin' and drinkin' the flesh off your bones—without payin' a far—"
"Hush, hush, mother; it's all right," said poor Crowl, red as fire.
Denzil looked at her dreamily. "Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?" he said.
"Who then should I be alludin' to, Mr. Cantercot? Here's seven weeks come and gone, and not a blessed 'aypenny have I—"
"My dear Mrs. Crowl," said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth with a pained air, "why reproach me for your neglect?"
"My neglect! I like that!"
"I don't," said Denzil more sharply. "If you had sent me in the bill you would have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of these details?"
"We ain't so grand down here. People pays their way—they don't get no bills" said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn.
Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse's voice.