Moreover, she was forced to employ a charwoman—­a charwoman who had made a fine art of breaking china, of losing silver teaspoons down sinks, and of going home of a night with vast pockets full of things that belonged to her by only nine-tenths of the law.  The charwoman ended by tumbling through a window, smashing panes to the extent of seventeen and elevenpence, and irreparably ripping one of the historic curtains.

Mrs Garlick then dismissed the charwoman, and sat down to count the cost of small economics.  The privilege of half-dirty curtains had involved her in an expense of L9, 19s., (call it L10).  It was in the afternoon.  The figure of Maria crossed the recently-repaired window.  Without a second’s thought Mrs Garlick rushed out of the house.

“Maria!” she cried abruptly—­with grim humour.  “Come here.  Come right inside.”

Maria stopped, then obeyed.

“Do you know how much you’ve let me in for, with your wicked, disobedient temper?”

“I’d have you know, mum—­” Maria retorted, putting her hands on the hips and forwarding her face.

Their previous scene together was as nothing to this one in sound and fury.  But the close was peace.  The next day half Bursley knew that Maria had gone back to Mrs Garlick, and there was a facetious note about the episode in the “Day by Day” column of the Signal.  The truth was that Maria and Mrs Garlick were “made for each other.”  Maria would not look at the ordinary “place.”  The curtains, as much as remained, were sent to the wash, but as three months had elapsed the mistress reckoned that she had won.  Still, the cleansing of the curtains had run up to appreciably more than a sovereign per curtain.

The warehouseman did not ask for Maria’s hand.  The stridency of her behaviour in court had frightened him.

Mrs Garlick’s chief hobby continues to be the small economy.  Happily, owing to a rise in the value of a land and a fortunate investment, she is in fairly well-to-do circumstances.

As she said one day to an acquaintance, “It’s a good thing I can afford to keep a tight hand on things.”

WHY THE CLOCK STOPPED

I

Mr Morfe and Mary Morfe, his sister, were sitting on either side of their drawing-room fire, on a Friday evening in November, when they heard a ring at the front door.  They both started, and showed symptoms of nervous disturbance.  They both said aloud that no doubt it was a parcel or something of the kind that had rung at the front door.  And they both bent their eyes again on the respective books which they were reading.  Then they heard voices in the lobby—­the servant’s voice and another voice—­and a movement of steps over the encaustic tiles towards the door of the drawing-room.  And Miss Morfe ejaculated: 

“Really!”

As though she was unwilling to believe that somebody on the other side of that drawing-room door contemplated committing a social outrage, she nevertheless began to fear the possibility.