“But why, then, William,” she asked, timidly, “have you changed your habits?”

“Hold your tongue!” he cried—­“hold your tongue, Jezabel!  Have you not got over your intoxication yet?  For twelve years I certainly followed the divine precept:  increase and multiply, once a year.  But since then, I have grown accustomed to something else, and I do not wish to alter my habits.”

And the Reverend William Greenfield, Vicar of St. Sampson’s, Tottenham, the saintly man whose blood was inflamed by heating food and liquor, whose ears were like full-blown poppies and who had a nose like a tomato, left his wife and, as had been his habit for four years, went to make love to Polly, the servant.

“Now, Polly,” he said, “you are a clever girl, and I mean, through you, to teach Mrs. Greenfield a lesson she will never forget.  I will try and see what I can do for you.”

And in order to this, he called her his little Jezabel, and said to her, with an unctuous smile: 

“Call me Jeroboam!  You don’t understand why?  Neither do I, but that does not matter.  Take off all your things, Polly, and show yourself to Mrs. Greenfield.”

The servant did as she was bidden, and the result was that Mrs. Greenfield never again hinted to her husband the desirability of laying the foundation of a thirteenth tribe.

THE LOG

It was a small drawing-room, with thick hangings, and with a faint, judicious smell of flowers and scents about it.  A large fire was burning in the grate, while one lamp, covered with a shade of old lace, on the corner of the mantel-piece threw a soft light onto the two persons who were talking.

She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, but one of those adorable old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest paper, and scented, impregnated with perfume as the delicate essences which she had used in her bath for so many years had penetrated through the epidermis.

He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a companion in the journey of life, but nothing else.

They had not spoken for about a minute, and they were both looking at the fire, dreaming no matter of what, in one of those moments of friendly silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in order to be happy together, when suddenly a large log, a stump covered with burning roots, fell out.  It fell over the fire-dogs into the drawing-room, and rolled onto the carpet, scattering great sparks all round.  The old lady sprang up with a little scream, as if she was going to run away, while he kicked the log back onto the hearth and trod out all the burning sparks with his boots.

When the disaster was repaired, there was a strong smell of burning, and sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her with a smile, and said, as he pointed to the log: