He was in no hurry to make for Dulwich; as he walked along his thoughts began to turn in a different direction, and on reaching the end of Upper Kennington Lane he settled the matter by striking towards Vauxhall Station.  A short railway journey and another pleasant saunter brought him to a street off Battersea Park Road, and to a china shop, over which stood the name of Clover.

In the window hung a card with an inscription in bold letters:  “Glass, china, and every kind of fashionable ornament for the table for hire on moderate terms.”  Mr. Gammon read this with an appreciative smile, which. accompanied by a nod, became a greeting to Mrs. Clover, who was aware of him from within the shop.  He entered.

“How does it go?”

“Two teas and a supper yesterday.  A wedding breakfast this morning.”

“Bravo!  What did I tell you?  You’ll want a bigger place before the end of the year.”

The shop was well stocked, the window well laid out; everything indicated a flourishing, though as yet a small, business.  Mrs. Clover, a neat, comely, and active woman, with a complexion as clear as that of her own best china, chatted vivaciously with the visitor, whilst she superintended the unpacking of a couple of crates by a muscular youth and a young lady (to use the technical term), her shop assistant.

“Why are you off to-day?” she inquired presently, after moving to the doorway for more private talk.

Mr. Gammon made his explanation with spirit and humour.

“You’re a queer man, if ever there was one,” Mrs. Clover remarked after watching him for a moment and averting her eyes as soon as they were met by his.  “You know your own business best, but I should have thought—­”

It was a habit of hers to imply a weighty opinion by suddenly breaking off, a form of speech known to the grammarians by a name which would have astonished Mrs. Clover.  Few women of her class are prone to this kind of emphasis.  Her friendly manner had a quietness, a reserve in its cordiality, which suited well with the frank, pleasant features of a matron not yet past her prime.

“It’s all right,” he replied, more submissively than he was wont to speak.  “I shall do better next time; I’m looking out for a permanency.”

“So you have been for ten years, to my knowledge.”

They laughed together.  At this point came an interruption in the shape of a customer who drove up in a hansom:  a loudly-dressed woman, who, on entering the shop, conversed with Mrs. Clover in the lowest possible voice, and presently returned to her vehicle with uneasy glances left and right.  Mr. Gammon, who had walked for some twenty yards, sauntered back to the shop, and his friend met him on the threshold.

“That’s the sort,” she whispered with a merry eye.  “Eight-roomed ’ouse near Queen’s Road Station.  Wants things for an at ’ome—­teaspoons as well—­couldn’t I make it ninepence the two dozen!  That’s the kind of place where there’ll be breakages.  But they pay well, the breakages do.”