“A lot o’ good a chiney tea-pot would be to you,” said the other, with a ready change of front,” or any other kind o’ tea-pot.”

Surprise and indignation deprived the stout matron of utterance.

“Or a milk-jug either,” pursued her opponent, following up her advantage.  “Or a coffee-pot, or—­”

The stout matron advanced upon her, and her mien was so terrible that the other, retreating to her house, slammed the door behind her and continued the discussion from a first-floor window.  Mint Street, with the conviction that Mr. Vickers’s tidings could wait, swarmed across the road to listen.

Mr. Vickers himself listened for a little while to such fragments as came his way, and then, going indoors, sat down amid the remains of his breakfast to endeavour to solve the mystery of the new clothes.

He took a short clay pipe from his pocket, and, igniting a little piece of tobacco which remained in the bowl, endeavoured to form an estimate of the cost of each person’s wardrobe.  The sum soon becoming too large to work in his head, he had recourse to pencil and paper, and after five minutes’ hard labour sat gazing at a total which made his brain reel.  The fact that immediately afterwards he was unable to find even a few grains of tobacco at the bottom of his box furnished a contrast which almost made him maudlin.

He sat sucking at his cold pipe and indulging in hopeless conjectures as to the source of so much wealth, and, with a sudden quickening of the pulse, wondered whether it had all been spent.  His mind wandered from Selina to Mr. Joseph Tasker, and almost imperceptibly the absurdities of which young men in love could be capable occurred to him.  He remembered the extravagances of his own youth, and bethinking himself of the sums he had squandered on the future Mrs. Vickers—­sums which increased with the compound interest of repetition—­came to the conclusion that Mr. Tasker had been more foolish still.

It seemed the only possible explanation.  His eye brightened, and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he crossed to the tap and washed his face.

“If he can’t lend a trifle to the man what’s going to be his father-in-law,” he said, cheerfully, as he polished his face on a roller-towel, “I shall tell ’im he can’t have Selina, that’s all.  I’ll go and see ’im afore she gets any more out of him.”

He walked blithely up the road, and, after shaking off one or two inquirers whose curiosity was almost proof against insult, made his way to Dialstone Lane.  In an unobtrusive fashion he glided round to the back, and, opening the kitchen door, bestowed a beaming smile upon the startled Joseph.

“Busy, my lad?” he inquired.

“What d’ye want?” asked Mr. Tasker, whose face was flushed with cooking.

Mr. Vickers opened the door a little wider, and, stepping inside, closed it softly behind him and dropped into a chair.