’I knew somethink would ’appen when I put the boots on the table by accident this mornin’,’ she explained, ‘It’s always a Bad Sign.’

You must not think, however, that Elizabeth ever allows her fatalism to interfere with her judgment.  I recall the occasion when she came to me looking actually concerned and remarked:  ’I’m sorry, ’m, but them two varses that was on the mantelpiece in the pink bedroom——­’

I started up.  ‘Don’t dare to say you’ve been unlucky with them!’

‘No’m, I wasn’t unlucky.  I was just careless when I broke those.’

A low moan escaped my lips.  They were the Sevres vases that I loved dearest of my possessions, and which, in the words of those who keep shops, ‘cannot be repeated.’  I regarded Elizabeth angrily, no longer able to control my wrath.  I am at times (says Henry) a hasty woman.  I ought to have paused and put my love of Sevres vases in the balance with the diet of scrambled eggs and the prospect of unlimited washing-up, and I know which side would have tipped up at once.  However, I did not pause, caring not that the bitter recriminations I intended to hurl at her would bring forth the inevitable month’s notice; that, at the first hint of her leaving me, at least a dozen of my neighbours would stretch out eager hands to snatch Elizabeth, a dozen different vacant sinks were ready for her selection.  I did not care, I say; I had loved my vases and in that moment I hated Elizabeth.

But she began to speak before I did.  ’It isn’t as if I’d been unlucky—­I couldn’t ha’ ’elped that.  But I know when I’m in the wrong’—­she unfolded a parcel she had in her hand as she spoke—­’so I went out larst night and bought these to replace what I broke.  Right’s right, I always say’; and she laid down before me a pair of vases on which were emblazoned gigantic and strangely-hued flowers that could belong to no earthly flora.

‘They’re bigger’n the varses I broke,’ she murmured, regarding her purchase with satisfaction.

Then I noted that she wore an expression of lofty pride, that she glowed with the calm satisfaction of one who has made ample reparation.  Looking at Elizabeth just then you might almost have thought that she had a soul.  Really, it gave one an odd feeling.

I picked up her offering and regarded it a moment in silence, while my aesthetic nature shook to its foundations.  Stifling the moan of horror that had risen to my lips, I faced her with a smile.  Balaclava heroes could have done no more.

‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ I said humbly.

CHAPTER IV

Marion often says that if Elizabeth hadn’t . . . but I believe I haven’t told you about Marion yet.  I’m afraid I shall never learn construction, in spite of Henry.