"Wonderful!" said the other, with a mocking glint in his eye.

"And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked
out with blue," continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.

Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. "This house is good
enough for me," he roared; "and what's good enough for me is good enough
for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want.
Stained glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in,
do you? Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the
work."

Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.

"We're going to live as we've always lived," pursued Mr. Gribble.
"Money ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just
because I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should
end up in the workhouse."

He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared
away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed
in the smoke-pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose
path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of
the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on
summer afternoons.

He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal
finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the
postman. Mrs. Gribble's timid reminders concerning the flight of time
and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped