children.  At present he was ‘engaged’ to Clem Peckover; that was an understood thing.  His father did not approve it, but this connection was undeniably better than those he had previously declared or concealed.  Bob, it seemed evident, was fated to make a mesalliance—­a pity, seeing his parts and prospects.  He might have aspired to a wife who had scarcely any difficulty with her h’s; whose bringing-up enabled her to look with compassion on girls who could not play the piano; who counted among her relatives not one collarless individual.

Clem, as we have seen, had already found, or imagined, cause for dissatisfaction with her betrothed.  She was well enough acquainted with Bob’s repute, and her temper made it improbable, to say the least, that the course of wooing would in this case run very smoothly.  At present, various little signs were beginning to convince her that she had a rival, and the hints of her rejected admirer, Jack Bartley, fixed her suspicions upon an acquaintance whom she had hitherto regarded merely with contempt.  This was Pennyloaf Candy, formerly, with her parents, a lodger in Mrs. Peckover’s house.  The family had been ousted some eighteen months ago on account of failure to pay their rent and of the frequent intoxication of Mrs. Candy.  Pennyloaf’s legal name was Penelope, which, being pronounced as a trisyllable, transformed itself by further corruption into a sound at all events conveying some meaning.  Applied in the first instance jocosely, the title grew inseparable from her, and was the one she herself always used.  Her employment was the making of shirts for export; she earned on an average tenpence a day, and frequently worked fifteen hours between leaving and returning to her home.  That Bob Hewett could interest himself, with whatever motive, in a person of this description, Miss Peckover at first declined to believe.  A hint, however, was quite enough to excite her jealous temperament; as proof accumulated, cunning and ferocity wrought in her for the devising of such a declaration of war as should speedily scare Pennyloaf from the field.  Jane Snowdon’s removal had caused her no little irritation; the hours of evening were heavy on her hands, and this new emotion was not unwelcome as a temporary resource.

As he came home from work one Monday towards the end of April, Bob encountered Pennyloaf; she had a bundle in her hands and was walking hurriedly.

‘Hallo! that you?’ ho exclaimed, catching her by the arm.  ’Where are you going?’

‘I can’t stop now.  I’ve got some things to put away, an’ it’s nearly eight.’

‘Come round to the Passage to-night.  Be there at ten.’

’I can’t give no promise.  There’s been such rows at ’ome.  You know mother summonsed father this mornin’?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard.  All right! come if you can; I’ll ho there.’