“What!” shouted the other. “Married?”

Mr. Nugent nodded.  His face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay.

“I thought everybody knew it,” he said.  “We have never disguised the fact.  Her husband died twenty years ago last——­”

“Twenty” said his suddenly enlightened listener.  “Who?—­What?”

Mr. Nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame.

“Dear—­aunt,” he choked, “how pleas—­pleased she’d be if—­she knew.  Don’t look like that, Hardy.  You’ll kill me.”

“You seem amused,” said Hardy, between his teeth.

“And you’ll be Kate’s uncle,” said Mr. Nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes.  “Poor little Kate.”

He put his head on the table again.  “And mine,” he wailed. “Uncle jemmy!—­will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?”

Mr. Hardy’s expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim.

“Well, I’ll do what I can for you,” he observed, “but I suppose you know Kate’s off for a three months’ visit to London to-morrow?”

The other observed that he didn’t know it, and, taught by his recent experience, eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s quite true,” said Nugent; “she’s going to stay with some relatives of ours.  She used to be very fond of one of the boys—­her cousin Herbert—­so you mustn’t be surprised if she comes back engaged.  But I daresay you’ll have forgotten all about her in three months.  And, anyway, I don’t suppose she’d look at you if you were the last man in the world.  If you’ll walk part of the way home with me I’ll regale you with anecdotes of her chilhood which will probably cause you to change your views altogether.”

In Fullalove Alley Mr. Edward Silk, his forebodings fulfilled, received the news of Amelia Kybird’s faithlessness in a spirit of’ quiet despair, and turned a deaf ear to the voluble sympathy of his neighbours.  Similar things had happened to young men living there before, but their behaviour had been widely different to Mr. Silk’s.  Bob Crump, for instance, had been jilted on the very morning he had arranged for his wedding, but instead of going about in a state of gentle melancholy he went round and fought his beloved’s father—­merely because it was her father—­and wound up an exciting day by selling off his household goods to the highest bidders.  Henry Jones in similar circumstances relieved his great grief by walking up and down the alley smashing every window within reach of his stick.

[Illustration:  “A spirit of quiet despair.”]

But these were men of spirit; Mr. Silk was cast in a different mould, and his fair neighbours sympathized heartily with him in his bereavement, while utterly failing to understand any man breaking his heart over Amelia Kybird.