"Don't be silly," said Peter. "You didn't understand. Of course
I'm going to give you a trial. You're going to 'do' for me. I
merely meant that we'd leave the details till to-morrow. Come,
housekeepers don't cry."

The little wet face looked up.

"You mean it? Honour bright?"

"Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me
my supper."

The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up.

"And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?"

"Yes, yes; I think that's a fair arrangement," agreed Mr. Peter
Hope, considering. "Don't you, Mrs. Postwhistle?"

"With a frock--or a suit of trousers--thrown in," suggested Mrs.
Postwhistle. "It's generally done."

"If it's the custom, certainly," agreed Mr. Peter Hope. "Sixpence
a week and clothes."

And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat
waiting the return of Tommy.

"I rather hope," said Peter, "it's a boy. It was the fogs, you
know. If only I could have afforded to send him away!"