“Where is her?” Silas demanded.

“Upstairs.”

“I’ my bedroom, I lay,” said Silas.

Herbert nodded.  “May be.”

“And everything upside down!” proceeded Uncle Silas.

“No!” said Herbert.  “We’ve put all your things in my old room.”

“Have ye!  Ye’re too obliging, lad!” growled Silas.  “And if it isn’t asking too much, where’s that china pig as used to be on the chimney-piece in th’ kitchen there?  Her’s smashed it, eh?”

“No,” said Herbert, mildly.  “She’s put it away in a cupboard.  She didn’t like it.”

“Ah!  I was but wondering if ye’d foreclosed on th’ pig too.”

“Possibly a few things are changed,” said Herbert.  “But you know when a woman takes into her head—­”

“Ay, lad!  Ay, lad!  I know!  It was th’ same wi’ my beard.  It had for go.  Thou’st under the domination of a woman, and I can sympathize wi’ thee.”

Herbert gave a long, high whistle.

“So that’s it?” he exclaimed.  And he suddenly felt as if his uncle was no longer an uncle but a brother.

“Yes,” said Silas.  “That’s it.  I’ll tell thee.  Pour some more hot water in here.  Dost remember when th’ Carl Rosa Opera Company was at Theatre Royal last year?  I met her then.  Her was one o’ Venus’s maidens i’ th’ fust act o’ Tannhaeuser, and her was a bridesmaid i’ Lohengrin, and Siebel i’ Faust, and a cigarette girl i’ summat else.  But it was in Tannhaeuser as I fust saw her on the stage, and her struck me like that.”  Silas clapped one damp hand violently on the other.  “Miss Elsa Venda was her stage name, but her was a widow, Mrs Parfitt, and had bin for ten years.  Seemingly her husband was of good family.  Finest woman I ever seed, nephew.  And you’ll say so.  Her’d ha’ bin a prima donna only for jealousy.  Fust time I spoke to her I thought I should ha’ fallen down.  Steady with that water.  Dost want for skin me alive?  Yes, I thought I should ha’ fallen down.  They call’n it love.  You can call it what ye’n a mind for call it.  I nearly fell down.”

“How did you meet her, uncle?” Herbert interposed, aware that his uncle had not been accustomed to move in theatrical circles.

“How did I meet her?  I met her by setting about to meet her.  I had for t’ meet her.  I got Harry Burisford, th’ manager o’ th’ theatre thou knowst, for t’ introduce us.  Then I give a supper, nephew—­I give a supper at Turk’s Head, but private like.”

“Was that the time when you were supposed to be at the Ratepayers’ Association every night?” Herbert asked blandly.

“It was, nephew,” said Si, with equal blandness.

“Then no doubt those two visits to Manchester, afterwards—­”