ecessary money to obtain his knighthood and blossom into a county
magnate. At one time he had even thought of standing for Parliament as
an old and crusted Tory; but up to date the War had prevented the
realisation of such a charming idyll. Instead he sat on the bench and
dispensed justice.

In appearance he was an exact counterpart of his wife--short and fat;
and his favourite attitude was standing with his legs wide apart and
his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. Strong men had been
known to burst into tears on seeing him for the first time arrayed as
the sporting squire; but the role was one which he persistently tried
to fill, with the help of a yellow hunting waistcoat and check
stockings. And when it is said that he invariably bullied the
servants, if possible in front of a third person, the picture of Sir
John is tolerably complete. He was, in short, a supreme cad, with not
a single redeeming feature. Stay--that is wrong. He still retained
the love of his wife, which may perhaps--nay, surely shall--be
accounted to him for righteousness. . . .

To her he was never the vain, strutting little bounder, making himself
ridiculous and offensive by turn. She never got beyond the picture of
him when, as plain John Patterdale, having put up the shutters and
locked the door of the shop, he would come through into their little
living-room behind for his supper. First he would kiss her, and then
taking off his best coat, he would put on the old frayed one that
always hung in readiness behind the door. And after supper, they would
draw up very close together, and dream wonderful dreams about the
future. All sorts of beautiful things danced in the flames; but the
most beautiful thing of all was the reality of her John, with his arm
round her waist, and his cheek touching hers.

Sometimes now, when the real truth struck her more clearly than
usual--for she was a shrewd old woman for all her kindness of
heart--sometimes when she saw the sneers of the people who ate his salt
and drank his champagne her mind went back with a bitter stab of memory
to those early days in Birmingham. What had they got in exchange for
their love and dreams over the kitchen fire--what Dead Sea Fruit had
they plucked? If only something could happen; if only he could lose
all his money, how willingly, how joyfully would she go back with him
to the niche where they both fitted. They might even be happy once
again. . . .

He had n