“That’s no good,” said her husband at last; “that won’t bring him back.”

“Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.

“Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble.  “That’s what you’re turning on the water-cart for, ain’t it?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely.  “I was thinking of——­”

“Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband.  “He wasn’t my uncle, poor chap, but I’ve been thinking of him, off and on, all day.  That bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness.  I brought it home as a treat.”

“I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table.  “When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress.  My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket—­”

“Go on,” said her husband, fiercely.  “Go on.  That’s just what I said:  trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever.”

“I’m ashamed to be seen out,” said Mrs. Gribble.

“A woman’s place is the home,” said Mr. Gribble; “and so long as I’m satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters.  So long as I am pleased, that’s everything.  What do you want to go dressing yourself up for?  Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman.”

“What are we going to do with all that money, then?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in trembling tones.

“That’ll do,” said Mr. Gribble, decidedly.  “That’ll do.  One o’ these days you’ll go too far.  You start throwing that money in my teeth and see what happens.  I’ve done my best for you all these years, and there’s no reason to suppose I sha’n’t go on doing so.  What did you say?  What!”

Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror.  “I—­I said—­it was my money,” she stammered.

Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her.  Then, kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the Grafton Arms.

It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in the slightest degree.  In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair.  He took the stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.

“Uncle George dead,” he said, at last, shaking his head.  “Hadn’t pleasure acquaintance, but good man.  Good man.”

He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.

“He was a teetotaller,” she remarked, casually.

“He was tee-toiler,” repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably.  “Good man.  Uncle George dead-tee-toller.”