"And the next scab that comes into my house won't get off so easy," said
Mrs. Porter to her husband. "D'you understand?"

"If you 'ad some husbands--" began Mr. Porter, trembling with rage.

"Yes, I know," said his wife, nodding. "Don't cry, Jemmy," she added,
taking the youngest on her knee. "Mother's only having a little game.
She and dad are both on strike for more pay and less work."

Mr. Porter got up, and without going through the formality of saying
good-bye to the hard-featured Mrs. Gorman, put on his cap and went out.
Over a couple of half-pints taken as a sedative, he realized the growing
seriousness of his position.

In a dull resigned fashion he took up his household duties again, made
harder now than before by the scandalous gossip of the aggrieved Mr.
Stevens. The anonymous present of a much-worn apron put the finishing
touch to his discomfiture; and the well-meant offer of a fair neighbour
to teach him how to shake a mat without choking himself met with a
reception that took her breath away.

It was a surprise to him one afternoon to find that his wife had so far
unbent as to tidy up the parlour. Ornaments had been dusted and polished
and the carpet swept. She had even altered the position of the
furniture. The table had been pushed against the wall, and the easy-
chair, with its back to the window, stood stiffly confronting six or
seven assorted chairs, two of which at least had been promoted from a
lower sphere.