“Hush, hush, mother; it’s all right,” said poor Crowl, red as fire.

Denzil looked at her dreamily.  “Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?” he said.

“Who then should I be alludin’ to, Mr. Cantercot?  Here’s seven weeks come and gone, and not a blessed ’aypenny have I—­”

“My dear Mrs. Crowl,” said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth with a pained air, “why reproach me for your neglect?”

“My neglect!  I like that!”

“I don’t,” said Denzil more sharply.  “If you had sent me in the bill you would have had the money long ago.  How do you expect me to think of these details?”

“We ain’t so grand down here.  People pays their way—­they don’t get no bills” said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn.

Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse’s voice.

“It’s three pounds fourteen and eightpence, if you’re so anxious to know,” Mrs. Crowl resumed.  “And there ain’t a woman in the Mile End Road as ’ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quartern and landlords clamburin’ for rent every Monday morning almost afore the sun’s up and folks draggin’ and slidderin’ on till their shoes is only fit to throw after brides and Christmas comin’ and sevenpence a week for schoolin’!”

Peter winced under the last item.  He had felt it coming—­like Christmas.  His wife and he parted company on the question of Free Education.  Peter felt that, having brought nine children into the world, it was only fair he should pay a penny a week for each of those old enough to bear educating.  His better half argued that, having so many children, they ought in reason to be exempted.  Only people who had few children could spare the penny.  But the one point on which the cobbler-sceptic of the Mile End Road got his way was this of the fees.  It was a question of conscience, and Mrs. Crowl had never made application for their remission, though she often slapped her children in vexation instead.  They were used to slapping, and when nobody else slapped them they slapped one another.  They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pestered their parents and worried their teachers, and were as happy as the Road was long.

“Bother the school fees!” Peter retorted, vexed.  “Mr. Cantercot’s not responsible for your children.”

“I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl,” Mrs. Crowl said sternly.  “I’m ashamed of you.”  And with that she flounced out of the shop into the back parlour.

“It’s all right,” Peter called after her soothingly.  “The money’ll be all right, mother.”

In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; in somewhat superior circles it is the fashion to speak of her as “the wife,” as you speak of “the Stock Exchange,” or “the Thames,” without claiming any peculiar property.  Instinctively men are ashamed of being moral and domesticated.