“Well, you’ve lived in it a good many years,” said her husband, controlling himself with difficulty.

“It’s rather dark and small,” said Mrs. Gribble.  “Not but what it is good enough for me.  And I dare say it will last my time.”

“Nonsense!” said her husband, gruffly.  “You want to get out a bit more.  You’ve got nothing to do now we are wasting all this money on a servant.  Why don’t you go out for little walks?”

Mrs. Gribble went, after several promptings, and the fruit of one of them was handed by the postman to Mr. Gribble a few days afterwards.  Half-choking with wrath and astonishment, he stood over his trembling wife with the first draper’s bill he had ever received.

“One pound two shillings and threepence three-farthings!” he recited.  “It must be a mistake.  It must be for somebody else.”

Mrs. Gribble, with her hand to her heart, tottered to the sofa and lay there with her eyes closed.

“I had to get some dress material,” she said, in a quavering voice.  “You want me to go out, and I’m so shabby I’m ashamed to be seen.”

Mr. Gribble made muffled noises in his throat; then, afraid to trust himself, he went into the back-yard and, taking a seat on an upturned bucket, sat with his head in his hands peering into the future.

The dressmaker’s bill and a bill for a new hat came after the next monthly payment; and a bill for shoes came a week later.  Hoping much from the well-known curative effects of fine feathers, he managed to treat the affair with dignified silence.  The only time he allowed full play to his feelings Mrs. Gribble took to her bed for two days, and the doctor had a heart-to-heart talk with him on the doorstep.

It was a matter of great annoyance to him that his wife still continued to attribute her ill-health to the smallness and darkness of the house; and the fact that there were only two of the houses in Charlton Grove left caused a marked depression of spirits.  It was clear that she was fretting.  The small servant went further, and said that she was fading away.

They moved at the September quarter, and a slight, but temporary, improvement in Mrs. Gribble’s health took place.  Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled over new curtains and new linoleum.  The tiled hearths, and stained glass in the front door filled her with a deep and solemn thankfulness.  The only thing that disturbed her was the fact that Mr. Gribble, to avoid wasting money over necessaries, contrived to spend an unduly large portion on personal luxuries.

“We ought to have some new things for the kitchen,” she said one day.

“No money,” said Mr. Gribble, laconically.

“And a mat for the bathroom.”

Mr. Gribble got up and went out.

She had to go to him for everything.  Two hundred a year and not a penny she could call her own!  She consulted her heart, and that faithful organ responded with a bound that set her nerves quivering.  If she could only screw her courage to the sticking-point the question would be settled for once and all.