Mrs. Johnson, sitting down opposite him and studying the returning tints of his complexion, nodded.

“That’s it,” she said, more cheerfully.  “You’re gettin’ a wholesome white again now.  I didn’t like that unhealthy greeny-grey.  But you’ve none of you any colour, you gentlemen—­not you nor your brother nor that pasty Vyvian.  None of you but the little curate; he had a nice little pink face.  I’m sure I wish some gals cared more for looks, and then they wouldn’t go after some as are as well let alone.”  This cryptic remark was illuminated by a sigh.  Mrs. Johnson, now that she saw Peter improving in complexion, reverted to her own troubles.

Peter replied vaguely, “No, I suppose they wouldn’t.  People ought to care for looks, of course.  They matter so much more than anything else, really.”

“Without goin’ all that way with you, Mr. Peter,” said Mrs. Johnson, “and with all due respect to Great Minds (which I haven’t got and never shall have, and nor had my poor dear that’s gone, so I’m sure I don’t know where Rhoder got her leanin’s from), I will say I do like to see a young man smart and well-kept.  It means a respect for himself, not to mention for those he takes out, that is a stand-by, at least for a mother.  And the young fellows affect the gals, too.  Rhoder, now—­she’d take some pains with herself if she went out with a smart fellow, that was nicely turned out himself and expected her to be the same.  But as it is—­hair dragged and parted like a queer picture, and a string of green beads for a collar, as if she was a Roman with prayers to say—­and her waist, Mr. Peter!  But there, I oughtn’t to talk like this to a gentleman, as Miss Gould would say; (I do keep on shockin’ Miss Gould, you know!) But I find it hard to rec’lect that about you, Mr. Peter; you’re so sympathetic, you might be a young lady.  An’ I feel it’s all safe with you, an’ I do believe you’d help me if you could.”

“I should be glad to,” said Peter, wondering whether it was for the improvement of Rhoda’s hair, waist, or collar that his assistance might be acceptable.

Mrs. Johnson was looking at him very earnestly; it was obvious that something was seriously amiss, and that she was wondering how much she could venture to say to this sympathetic young man who might be a young lady.  She made a sudden gesture with her stout hands, as if flinging reticence to the winds, and leant forward towards him.

“Mr. Peter ...  I don’t hardly like to say it ... but could you take my gal out sometimes?  It does sound a funny thing to ask—­but I can’t abide it that she should be for ever with that there Vyvian.  I don’t like him, and there it is.  And Rhoder does ...  And he’s just amusin’ himself, and I can’t bear it for my little gal, that’s where it is....  Mr. Peter, I hate the fellow, though you may say I’m no Christian for it, and of course one is bidden not to judge but to love all men.  But he fair gives me the creeps, like a toad....  Do you know that feelin’?”