Mrs.
Peckover's, did not sleep often bring a vision of happiness, of freedom
from bitter tasks, and had she not to wake in the miserable mornings,
trembling lest she had lain too long? Her condition was greatly better
than then, so much better that it seemed wicked folly to lament because
one joy was not granted her.--Why, in the meantime she had forgotten
all about Pennyloaf. That visit must be paid the first thing this
morning.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE TREASURY UNLOCKED

A Sunday morning. In their parlour in Burton Crescent, Mr. and Mrs.
Joseph Snowdon were breakfasting. The sound of church bells--most
depressing of all sounds that mingle in the voice of London--intimated
that it was nearly eleven o'clock, but neither of our friends had in
view the attendance of public worship. Blended odours of bacon and
kippered herrings filled the room--indeed, the house, for several
breakfasts were in progress under the same roof. For a wonder, the
morning was fine, even sunny; a yellow patch glimmered on the worn
carpet, and the grime of the window-panes was visible against an
unfamiliar sky. Joseph, incompletely dressed, had a Sunday paper
propped before him, and read whilst he ate. Clem, also in anything but
_grande toilette_ was using a knife for the purpose of conveying to her
mouth the juice which had exuded from crisp rashers. As usual, they had
very little to say to each other. Clem looked at her husband now and
then, from under her eyebrows, surreptitiously.

After one of these glances she said, in a tone which was not exactly
hostile, but had a note of suspicion:

'I'd give something to know why he's going to marry Clara Hewett.'

'Not the first time you've made that remark,' returned Joseph, without
looking up from his paper.

'I suppose I can speak?'

'Oh, yes. But I'd try to do so in a more lady-like way.'

Clem flashed at him a gleam of hatred. He had become fond lately of
drawing attention to her defects of breeding. Clem certainly did not
keep up with his own progress in the matter of external refinement; his
comments had given her a sense of inferiority, which irritated her
solely as meaning that she was not his equal in craft. She let a minute
or two pass, then returned to the subject.

'There's something at the bottom of it; I know that. Of course you know
more about it than you pretend.'

Joseph leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a smile of the
loftiest scorn.

'It never occurs to y