‘They calls me “Jokin’ Meg” in Primrose Court.  The shiny Quaker, ’e axes if my name is Gudgeon.  “Well,” sez I, “supposin’ as my name is Gudgeon,—­I don’t say it is,” says I, “but supposin’ as it is,—­what then?” sez I.  “But is that your name?” sez ‘e.  “Supposin’ as it was,” sez I, “what then?” “Will you answer my simple kervestion?” sez ’e.  “Is your name Mrs. Gudgeon, or ain’t it not?” sez ‘e.  “An’ will you answer my simple kervestion, Mr. Shiny Quaker?” sez I.  “Supposin’ my name was Mrs. Gudgeon,—­I don’t say it is, but supposin’ it was,—­what’s that to you?” sez I, for I thought my poor bor Bob what lives in the country had got into trouble agin and had sent for me.’

‘Go on, mother,’ said Cyril, ‘what did the shiny Quaker say then?’

’"Well then,” sez ’e, “if your name is Mrs. Gudgeon, there is a pootty gal as is, I am told, a-livin’ along o’ you.”  “Oh, oh, my fine shiny Quaker gent,” sez I, an’ I flings the door wide open an’ there I stan’s in the doorway, “it’s her you wants, is it?” sez I.  “And pray what does my fine shiny Quaker gent want wi’ my darter?” “Your darter?” sez ’e, an opens ’is mouth like this, and shets it agin like a rat-trap.  “Yis, my darter,” sez I.  “I s’pose,” sez I, “you think she ain’t ’ansom enough to be my darter.  No more she ain’t,” sez I; “but she takes arter her father, an’ werry sorry she is for it,” sez I.  “I want to put her in the way of ‘arnin’ some money,” sez ’e.  “Oh, do you?” sez I.  “How very kind!  I’m sure it does a pore woman’s ’eart good to see how kind you gents is to us pore women’s pootty darters,” sez I,—­“even shiny Quaker gents as is generally so quiet.  You’re not the fust shiny gent,” sez I, “as ’ez followed ’er ’um, I can tell you,—­not the fust by a long way; but up to now,” sez I, “I’ve allus managed to send you all away with a flea in your ears, cuss you for a lot of wicious warm exits, young and old,” sez I, “an’ if you don’t get out,” sez I—­“My good woman, you mistake my attentions,” sez ’e.  “Oh no, I don’t,” sez I, “not a bit on it.  It’s sich ole sinners as you in your shiny black coats,” sez I, “as I never do mistake, and if you don’t git out there’s a pump-’andle behind this werry door, as my poor bor Bob brought up from the country for me to sell for him—­” “My good woman,” sez ’e, “I am a hartist,” sez ’e.  “What’s that?” sez I.  “A painter,” sez ’e.  “A painter, air you? you don’t look it,” sez I.  “P’raps it’s holiday time with ye,” sez I, “and that makes you look so varnishy.  Well, and what do painters more nor any other trade want with pore women’s pootty darters?” sez I,—­“more nor plumbers nor glaziers, nor bricklayers, for the matter of that?” sez I.  “But I ain’t a ’ousepainter,” sez ’e; “I paints picturs, and I want this gal to set as a moral,” sez ‘e.  “A moral! an’ what’s a moral?” sez I.  “You ain’t a-goin’ to play none o’ your shiny-coat larks wi’ my pootty darter,” sez I.