He went out with his head down and his nose very near touching his stomach; and after he’d gone I got in the house so limp as a dead rat.  I’d bluffed it all right to Gregory; but when my flame cooled, I found the tears on my face and let ’em run for an hour.  Then I calmed down and licked my bruises, so to speak, and felt a terrible wish for to hear a friendly fellow creature and get a bit of sympathy out of someone.  For I’m a very sociable kind of woman; so I put on my bonnet and was just going round to see Mrs. Vincent and ask after the new baby and then tell my tale, her being a dear friend to me and her family also, when another man came to my door and there stood my son Rupert—­him known as ’Mother’s Misfortune,’ to distinguish him from my dear eldest one.

I wasn’t in no mood for Rupert, and I told him so, but I marked he was mildly excited, and that being a most unusual state for him, I stopped five minutes and axed him what he’d come for.

“You’ll laugh,” he said sitting down and lighting his pipe.

“I ain’t in a very laughing temper,” I answered, “and if I laugh at anything you say, it will be the first time in your life I ever have done.”

“Dry up,” he said, “and listen.  I’ve just come for a bit of a tell with Minnie Parable.”

Then I forgot myself.

“To hell with Minnie Parable!” I cried out.  “I don’t want to hear nothing about that misbegot vixen.”

For once Rupert was astonished, but he weren’t so astonished as me a minute later.

“I’m sorry you take that view,” he replied; “because she’ll be your daughter-in-law in six weeks.  I be going to marry her.”

I never can stand more’n one shock a day, and now I felt myself getting out of hand terrible fast.  But I drawed in a deep breath of air and fell on my chair.

“There’s a good deal more in that woman than meets the eye,” went on Rupert.  “Her face would frighten a hedge-pig, no doubt, and her shape be mournful; but I ain’t one to marry for decorations.  She’s a woman, and she can cook and she knows the value of money, and also knows my opinions on that subject.  I didn’t find her a bad sort by no means.  She’s got sense and she ain’t a gadder, and would rather work than play, same as me.”

“But her temper, Rupert, her famous temper,” I murmured to the man, “and her woeful, craakin voice.”

“Nobody won’t hear no more about her famous temper,” he said, “not after she’s married me.  If I don’t cast her temper out of her in a week, then I ain’t the man I count myself; and as for her voice, that won’t trouble me neither.  I’m a peace-lover, and her voice will damned soon be stilled when I’m home to hear it.”

It didn’t sound promising to my ear, and if it had been any other she but Minnie Parable, I might have felt sorry for the woman.

“D’you mean she’s took you?” I asked, still fluttering to the roots.