“Me?  Why, I never dreamt o’ such a thing,” declared the surprised Mr. Billing.  “And there’s other ways of doing good besides asking a pack of old women in to tea.”

“I know there is,” said his wife.  “All in good time,” she added, with a far-away look in her eyes.

Mr. Billing cleared his throat, but nothing came of it.  He cleared it again.

“I couldn’t let you do all the good,” said his wife, hastily.  “It wouldn’t be fair.  I must help.”

Mr. Billing lit his pipe noisily, and then took it out into the back-yard and sat down to think over the situation.  The ungenerous idea that his wife was making goodness serve her own ends was the first that occurred to him.

His suspicions increased with time.  Mrs. Billing’s good works seemed to be almost entirely connected with hospitality.  True, she had entertained Mr. Purnip and one of the ladies from the Settlement to tea, but that only riveted his bonds more firmly.  Other visitors included his sister-in-law, for whom he had a great distaste, and some of the worst-behaved children in the street.

“It’s only high spirits,” said Mrs. Billing; “all children are like that.  And I do it to help the mothers.”

“And ’cos you like children,” said her husband, preserving his good-humour with an effort.

There was a touch of monotony about the new life, and the good deeds that accompanied it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, was apt to pall.  And Elk Street, instead of giving him the credit which was his due, preferred to ascribe the change in his behaviour to what they called being “a bit barmy on the crumpet.”

He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen.  Mrs. Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance.

“Wot’s the game?” he inquired.

“Game?” repeated his wife, in a trembling voice.  “Nothing.  ’Ow do you find that steak-pudding?  I thought of giving you one every Wednesday.”

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her thoughtfully.  Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence.

“W-w-wot is it?” he demanded.  “A cat?”

Mrs. Billing made no reply, and her husband sprang to his feet as a long, thin wailing sounded through the house.  A note of temper crept into it and strengthened it.

“Wot is it?” demanded Mr. Billing again.  “It’s—­it’s Mrs. Smith’s Charlie,” stammered his wife.

“In—­in my bedroom?” exclaimed her husband, in incredulous accents.  “Wot’s it doing there?”

“I took it for the night,” said his wife hurriedly.  “Poor thing, what with the others being ill she’s ’ad a dreadful time, and she said if I’d take Charlie for a few—­for a night, she might be able to get some sleep.”