went so far as to say.

Already I regarded myself as among the Immortals.

One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, stayed with us for
months and might have stayed years, but for her addiction to strong
language. The only and well-beloved child of the captain of the barge
"Nancy Jane," trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, her
conversation was at once my terror and delight.

"Janet," my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands going up
instinctively to guard her ears, "how can you use such words?"

"What words, mum?"

"The things you have just called the gas man."

"Him! Well, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my
clean kitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--" And before my
mother could stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him
it--or rather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught
else than express in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion.

We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that I
personally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for
mincing one's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important.
I told her bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she
would inevitably go to hell.

"Then where's my father going?" demanded Janet.