‘Oh, sir.’

’I’ve twelve of ’em living, Mr Crawley—­from eighteen years, the eldest—­a girl, down to eighteen months the youngest—­a boy, and they go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel.  They ain’t such far away distant cousins from your own young ones—­only first, once, as we call it.’

’I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured to trouble you.’

’Blood is thicker than water, isn’t it?  I often say that.  I heard of one of your girls only yesterday.  She is staying somewhere down in the country, not far from where my sister lives—­Mrs Eames, the widow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world.  I daresay you’ve heard of her?’

‘The name is familiar to me, Mr Toogood.’

’Of course it is.  I’ve a nephew down there just now, and he saw your girl the other day;—­very highly spoke of her too.  Let me see;—­how many do you have?’

‘Three living, Mr Toogood.’

’I’ve just four times three;—­that’s the difference.  But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver you know; and I tell them that when they’ve eat up all the butter, they’ll have to take their bread dry.’

‘I trust the young people take your teaching in the proper spirit.’

’I don’t know much about spirit.  There’s spirit enough.  My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came here today without tickets for the pantomime I shouldn’t have any dinner allowed me.  That’s the way they treat me.  But we understand each other at home.  We’re all pretty good friends there, thank God.  And there isn’t a sick chick among the boiling.’

‘You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful,’ said Mr Crawley, gravely.

’Yes, yes, yes; that’s true.  I think of that sometimes, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do.  But the best way to be thankful is to use the goods the gods provide you.  “The lovely Thais sits beside you.  Take the goods the gods provide you.”  I often say that to my wife, till the children have got calling her Thais.  The children have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr Crawley.’

By this time Mr Crawley was almost beside himself, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to speak.  He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes—­who would grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and would then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other matters of important business;—­but here was an easy familiar fellow, who seemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken advantage of a distant family connexion to tell him everything about the affairs of his own household.  And then how peculiar were the domestic affairs which he told!  What was Mr Crawley to say to a man who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais?  Of Thais Mr Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that perhaps Mr Toogood knew less.  He felt it, however, to be very difficult to submit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in such a strain about his own wife and children.