He paused at the corner of the street, and, with a hearty handshake, went off.  Mr. Billing, a prey to somewhat mixed emotions, continued on his way home.  The little knot of earnest men and women who had settled in the district to spread light and culture had been angling for him for some time.  He wondered, as he walked, what particular bait it was that had done the mischief.

“They’ve got me at last,” he remarked, as he opened the house-door and walked into his small kitchen.  “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to Mr. Purnip.”

“Wish ’em joy,” said Mrs. Billing, briefly.  “Did you wipe your boots?”

Her husband turned without a word, and, retreating to the mat, executed a prolonged double-shuffle.

“You needn’t wear it out,” said the surprised Mrs. Billing.

“We’ve got to make people ’appier,” said her husband, seriously; “be kinder to ’em, and brighten up their dull lives a bit.  That’s wot Mr. Purnip says.”

“You’ll brighten ’em up all right,” declared Mrs. Billing, with a sniff.  “I sha’n’t forget last Tuesday week—­no, not if I live to be a hundred.  You’d ha’ brightened up the police-station if I ’adn’t got you home just in the nick of time.”

Her husband, who was by this time busy under the scullery-tap, made no reply.  He came from it spluttering, and, seizing a small towel, stood in the door-way burnishing his face and regarding his wife with a smile which Mr. Purnip himself could not have surpassed.  He sat down to supper, and between bites explained in some detail the lines on which his future life was to be run.  As an earnest of good faith, he consented, after a short struggle, to a slip of oil-cloth for the passage; a pair of vases for the front room; and a new and somewhat expensive corn-cure for Mrs. Billing.

“And let’s ’ope you go on as you’ve begun,” said that gratified lady.  “There’s something in old Purnip after all.  I’ve been worrying you for months for that oilcloth.  Are you going to help me wash up?  Mr. Purnip would.”

Mr. Billing appeared not to hear, and, taking up his cap, strolled slowly in the direction of the Blue Lion.  It was a beautiful summer evening, and his bosom swelled as he thought of the improvements that a little brotherliness might effect in Elk Street.  Engrossed in such ideas, it almost hurt him to find that, as he entered one door of the Blue Lion, two gentlemen, forgetting all about their beer, disappeared through the other.

“Wot ’ave they run away like that for?” he demanded, looking round.  “I wouldn’t hurt ’em.”

“Depends on wot you call hurting, Joe,” said a friend.

Mr. Billing shook his head.  “They’ve no call to be afraid of me,” he said, gravely.  “I wouldn’t hurt a fly; I’ve got a new ’art.”

“A new wot?” inquired his friend, staring.

“A new ’art,” repeated the other.  “I’ve given up fighting and swearing, and drinking too much.  I’m going to lead a new life and do all the good I can; I’m going—­”