voice. "I won't come again."

"That's right," said the old lady. "That'll please her, I know. And if
she should happen to ask what sort of a living you are making, what shall
I tell her?"

"Tell her what you said about my clothes, ma'am," said Mr. Davis, with
his hand on the door-knob. "She'll understand then. She's known wot it
is to be poor herself. She'd got a bad temper, but she'd have cut her
tongue out afore she'd 'ave thrown a poor devil's rags in his face.
Good-afternoon."

"Good-afternoon, Ben," said the old woman, in a changed voice.

Mr. Davis, half-way through the door, started as though he had been shot,
and, facing about, stood eyeing her in dumb bewilderment.

"If I take you back again," repeated his wife, "are you going to behave
yourself?"

"It isn't the same voice and it isn't the same face," said the old woman;
"but if I'd only got a broomhandle handy----"

Mr. Davis made an odd noise in his throat.

"If you hadn't been so down on your luck," said his wife, blinking her
eyes rapidly, "I'd have let you go. If you hadn't looked 'so miserable I
could have stood it. If I take you back, are you going to behave
yourself?"