“She'd 'ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me,” he ses. “She reads the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise cases, and she'd 'ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She's got 'eaps and 'eaps of love-letters o' mine.”
“Love-letters!” ses Alf, staring. “Love-letters when you live in the same house!”
“She started it,” ses his uncle; “she pushed one under my door one morning, and I 'ad to answer it. She wouldn't come down and get my breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning.”
“Do you sign 'em with your own name?” ses Alf, arter thinking a bit.
“No,” ses 'is uncle, turning red.
“Wot do you sign 'em, then?” ses Alf.
“Never you mind,” ses his uncle, turning redder. “It's my handwriting, and that's good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only did it once. I wouldn't do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha' heard 'er.”
“If 'er fust husband was alive she couldn't marry you,” ses Alf, very slow and thoughtful.
“No,” ses his uncle, nasty-like; “and if I was an old woman she couldn't marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the Evening Star fifteen years ago.”
“So far as she knows,” ses Alf; “but there was four of them saved, so why not five? Mightn't 'e have floated away on a spar or something and been picked up? Can't you dream it three nights running, and tell 'er that you feel certain sure he's alive?”