His absences of an evening were nothing new, but his manner on returning was such as Pennyloaf had never seen in him.  He appeared to be suffering from some intense excitement; his hands were unsteady; he showed the strangest nervousness if there were any unusual sounds in the house.  Then he certainly obtained money of which his wife did not know the source; he bought new articles of clothing, and in explanation said that he had won bets.  Pennyloaf remarked these things with uneasiness; she had a fear during her lonely evenings for which she could give no reason.  Poor slowwitted mortal though she was, a devoted fidelity attached her to her husband, and quickened wonderfully her apprehension in everything that concerned him.

‘Miss Snowdon came to-day, Bob,’ she had said, about a week after his order with regard to Jane.

‘Oh, she did?  And did you tell her she’d better keep away?’

‘Yes,’ was the dispirited answer.

‘Glad to hear it.’

As for Jack Bartley, he never showed himself at the new lodgings.

Bob shortly became less regular in his attendance at the workshop.  An occasional Monday he had, to be sure, been in the habit of allowing himself, but as the winter wore on he was more than once found straying about the streets in midweek.  One morning towards the end of November, as he strolled along High Holborn, a hand checked his progress; he gave almost a leap, and turned a face of terror upon the person who stopped him.  It was Clem—­Mrs. Snowdon.  They had, of course, met casually since Bob’s marriage, and in progress of time the ferocious glances they were wont to exchange had softened into a grin of half-friendly recognition; Clem’s behaviour at present was an unexpected revival of familiarity.  When he had got over his shock Bob felt surprised, and expressed the feeling in a—­ ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

‘You jumped as if I’d stuck a pin in you,’ replied Clem.  ’Did you think it was a copper?’

Bob looked at her with a surly smile.  Though no one could have mistaken the class she belonged to, Clem was dressed in a way which made her companionship with Bob in his workman’s clothing somewhat incongruous; she wore a heavily trimmed brown hat, a long velveteen jacket, and carried a little bag of imitation fur.

‘Why ain’t you at work?’ she added.  ’Does Mrs. Pennyloaf Hewett know how you spend your time?’

‘Hasn’t your husband taught you to mind your own business?’

Clem took the retort good-humouredly, and they walked on conversing.  Not altogether at his ease thus companioned, Bob turned out of the main street, and presently they came within sight of the British Museum.

‘Ever been in that place?’ Clem asked.

‘Of course I have,’ he replied, with his air of superiority.

‘I haven’t.  Is there anything to pay?  Let’s go in for half an hour.’