answered Tommy. "But I don't think much o'
lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet there. I shall sleep
out to-night. 'Tain't raining."

Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.

"Serves you right!" growled Peter savagely. "How can anyone help
treading on you when you will get just between one's legs. Told you of
it a hundred times."

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with
himself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory would
persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner of
which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to
breathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and still
more fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative
worth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas--a name common enough in
all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once. In the
name of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to do with this
affair? The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr.
Peter Hope's abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerable
pointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he not always
condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or book? Now and
then the suspicion had crossed Peter's mind that, in spite of all this,
he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself--things had suggested this to
him. The fear had always made him savage.

"You wait here till I come back," he growled, seizing the astonished
Tommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the centre of the
room. "Sit down, and don't you dare to move." And Peter went out and
slammed the door behind him.

"Bit off his chump, ain't he?" remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the sound
of Peter's descending footsteps died away. People had a way of
addressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this.

"Oh, well, it's all in the day's work," commented Tommy cheerfully, and
sat down as bid.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied by a
large, restful lady, to whom surprise--one felt it instinctively--had
always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.

Tommy rose.

"That's the--the article," explained Peter.

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. It
was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded most
human affairs.

"That's right," said Mrs. P