Jenny. "I say!" continued Alf, admiringly. "A new hat, is it? Smart!
Looks absolutely A1. Real West End style, isn't it? Going to have some
chiffong?"

"Sit down, Alf." It was Emmy who spoke, motioning him to a chair
opposite to Pa. He took it, his shoulder to Jenny, while Emmy sat by the
table, looking at him, her hands in her lap.

"How is he?" Alf asked, jerking his head at Pa. "Perked up when I said
'bigamy,' didn't he!"

"He's been very good, I will say," answered Emmy. "Been quiet all
day. And he ate his supper as good as gold." Jenny's smile and little
amused crouching of the shoulders caught her eye. "Well, so he did!"
she insisted. Jenny took no notice. "He's had his--mustn't say it,
because he _always_ hears that word, and it's not time for his
evening ... Eight o'clock he has it."

"What's that?" said Alf, incautiously. "Beer?"

"Beer!" cried Pa. "Beer!" It was the cry of one who had been malignantly
defrauded, a piteous wail.

"There!" said both the girls, simultaneously. Jenny added: "Now you've
done it!"

"All right, Pa! Not time yet!" But Emmy went to the kitchen cupboard as
Pa continued to express the yearning that filled his aged heart.

"Sorry!" whispered Alf. "Hold me hand out, naughty boy!"