unning. Give Rose any one that's ill. But wot is that
_but_ settin'? And now, you see, with settin' she's ill. It's all very
well when you're brought up to it, but she isn't. Rose'd be well if she
'ad a 'ouse and did the work in it. And 'E won't let 'er 'ave it. 'E
won't 'ear of 'er workin', 'E says."

"Well, naturally, he wouldn't like to see his wife working."

"Then, miss, 'E should 'ave married a lady 'as wouldn't want to work.
That's wot 'E should have done. We were always against it from the
first, 'er uncle and me was. But they was set, bein' young-like."

Mrs. Eldred's voice ceased suddenly as Tanqueray entered. Jane
abstained from all observation of their greeting. She was aware of an
unnatural suavity in Tanqueray's manner. He carried it so far as to
escort Mrs. Eldred all the way down to the ground-floor sitting-room
where Rose was.

He returned with considerable impetus to Jane.

"Well, Jinny, so you've seen my aunt-in-law?"

"I have," said Jinny contumaciously, "and I like her."

"What do you think? She's brought a dog on a chain and a beast of a cat
in a basket."

Jinny abstained from sympathy, and Tanqueray grew grave.

"I wish I knew what was the matter with Rose," he said. "She doesn't
seem to get much better. The doctor swears it's only liver; but he's a
silly ass."

"Tanks, there's nothing the matter really, except--the poor little bird
wants to build its nest. It wants sticks and straws and feathers and
things----"

"Do you mean I've got to go and find a beastly house?"

"Let her go and find it."

"I would in a minute--only I'm so hard up."

"Of course you'll be hard up if you go on living in rooms like this."

"That's what she says. But when she talks about a house she means that
she'll do all the work in it."

"Why not?" said Jane.

"Why not? I married her because I wasn't going to have her worked to
death in that damned lodging-house of her uncle's."

"You married her because you loved her," said Jane quietly.

"Well--of course. And I'm not going to let my wife cook my dinner and
make my bed and empty my slops. How can I?"

"She'll die if you don't, George."

"Die?"

"She'll get horribly ill. She's ill now because she can't run about and
sweep and dust and cook dinners. She's dying for love of all the
beautiful things you won't let her have--pots and pans and
carpet-sweepers and besoms. You don't want her to die of an unhappy
passion for a besom?"

"I don't want to s