Ted cast a depreciating eye towards the portrait, but, after a glance at it, suddenly regained his tongue and his spirits.

“See here, Miss Heptonstall,” he cried eagerly, “th’ Queen’s not like that!  Theer now, it just shows how poor folks gets imposed upon!  I’ve seen the Queen mysel’—­walked all the road to Liverpool when I didn’t know no better, an’ I see her, an’ hoo were nought but a wumman i’ black!  Theer now, I’ll tak’ my oath on ’t!  Hoo hadn’t no crown on, nor yet no blue ribbon, an’ none o’ they fal-lals o’ medals, an’ nought i’ her hand.  Hoo was jest an ord’nary wumman same ’s ony other wumman.  ‘Well,’ thinks I to mysel’, ‘if yon is to be stuck up at th’ ‘ead o’ Government, an’ we all mun bow down afore a wuimman as isn’t nought different to ony other wumman, it’s a shame,’ I says.  An’ it is a shame, Miss Heptonstall.”

Ted was working up into a fine declamatory vein, and would probably have continued to hold forth for some time had not Margaret indignantly interrupted him.

“Stop that!  I’ll ha’ noan of it i’ this ‘ouse, an’ so I tell ye.  Did ever a body hear sich talk!  Ye ought to be ashamed o’ yoursel’, Edward Wharton!  If you was a mon ye should be ready to lay down your life for your Queen!”

“Lay down my life!” repeated Ted, who was getting slightly irate in his turn.  “I’d do no sich thing.  I wouldn’t put mysel’ onyways out o’ my road for th’ Queen, now I know what hoo is.  Hoo’s fools enough to fight for her and wark for her.  I wouldn’t do nought for her.”

“Ye would then,” said Margaret, suddenly becoming calm again and smiling grimly to herself.  “Theer’s one thing ye’d do for her, Edward Wharton—­ye’d drink her ’ealth.”

Before he could retort she rose and went into the buttery, returning after a moment or two with a foaming brown jug in one hand and a quaintly shaped Toby-mug in the other.  She placed them both on the table in inviting proximity to Ted.

“Now then,” she said persuasively, “ye’ll drink Long Life to Her Gracious Majesty.”

The day was exceedingly warm, and if there was one thing on earth for which Radical Ted had a weakness it was his native nut—­brown ale.  He looked at Margaret and grinned—­the grin of compromise.  Margaret, still smiling, slowly filled the beaker, a beautiful creamy head bubbling over the brim.

“Coom,” she said, “ye’ll say:  ’Her Majesty’s ‘ealth, an’ long life to her.’”

Ted stretched out his hand and grasped the tempting handle; then, averting his eyes, he hastily mumbled the prescribed words, burying his face in the mug immediately after.  While he slowly drained its contents Margaret chanted the last verse of the National Anthem, to a tune which might possibly have been like “God Save the Queen” if it had not borne an equal resemblance to “The Dead March in Saul.”

Music, we know, has charms to soothe the savage breast, and, whether because of Margaret’s patriotic outburst, or because the beer was of excellent quality, Ted’s face was wreathed in smiles when he set down the mug.