His words fell on deaf ears.  No adjutant getting his regiment ready for a march-past could have taken more trouble than Miss Vickers was taking at this moment over her small company.  Caps were set straight and sleeves pulled down.  Her face shone with pride and her eyes glistened as the small fry, discoursing in excited whispers, filed stiffly out.

A sudden cessation of gossip in neighbouring doorways testified to the impression made by their appearance.  Past little startled groups the procession picked its way in squeaking pride, with Mrs. Vickers and Selina bringing up the rear.  The children went by with little set, important faces; but Miss Vickers’s little bows and pleased smiles of recognition to acquaintances were so lady-like that several untidy matrons retired inside their houses to wrestle grimly with feelings too strong for outside display.

“Pack o’ prancing peacocks,” said the unnatural Mr. Vickers, as the procession wound round the corner.

He stood looking vacantly up the street until the gathering excitement of his neighbours aroused new feelings.  Vanity stirred within him, and leaning casually against the door-post he yawned and looked at the chimney-pots opposite.  A neighbour in a pair of corduroy trousers, supported by one brace worn diagonally, shambled across the road.

“What’s up?” he inquired, with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of Mr. Vickers’s vanished family.

“Up?” repeated Mr. Vickers, with an air of languid surprise.

“Somebody died and left you a fortin?” inquired the other.

“Not as I knows of,” replied Mr. Vickers, staring.  “Why?”

“Why?” exclaimed the other.  “Why, new clothes all over.  I never see such a turn-out.”

Mr. Vickers regarded him with an air of lofty disdain.  “Kids must ’ave new clothes sometimes, I s’pose?” he said, slowly.  “You wouldn’t ’ave’em going about of a Sunday in a ragged shirt and a pair of trowsis, would you?”

The shaft passed harmlessly.  “Why not?” said the other.  “They gin’rally do.”

Mr. Vickers’s denial died away on his lips.  In twos and threes his neighbours had drawn gradually near and now stood by listening expectantly.  The idea of a fortune was common to all of them, and they were anxious for particulars.

[Illustration:  “They were anxious for particulars.”]

“Some people have all the luck,” said a stout matron.  “I’ve ’ad thirteen and buried seven, and never ’ad so much as a chiney tea-pot left me.  One thing is, I never could make up to people for the sake of what I could get out of them.  I couldn’t not if I tried.  I must speak my mind free and independent.”

“Ah! that’s how you get yourself disliked,” said another lady, shaking her head sympathetically.

“Disliked?” said the stout matron, turning on her fiercely.  “What d’ye mean?  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  Who’s getting themselves disliked?”