same Constance.  Only by recalling dates and by calculations could she really grasp that she had been married a little over six years and not a little over six months.  She had to admit that, if Samuel would be forty next birthday, she would be twenty-seven next birthday.  But it would not be a real twenty-seven; nor would Sam’s forty be a real forty, like other people’s twenty-sevens and forties.  Not long since she had been in the habit of regarding a man of forty as senile, as practically in his grave.

She reflected, and the more she reflected the more clearly she saw that after all the almanacs had not lied.  Look at Fan!  Yes, it must be five years since the memorable morning when doubt first crossed the minds of Samuel and Constance as to Fan’s moral principles.  Samuel’s enthusiasm for dogs was equalled by his ignorance of the dangers to which a young female of temperament may be exposed, and he was much disturbed as doubt developed into certainty.  Fan, indeed, was the one being who did not suffer from shock and who had no fears as to the results.  The animal, having a pure mind, was bereft of modesty.  Sundry enormities had she committed, but none to rank with this one!  The result was four quadrupeds recognizable as fox-terriers.  Mr. Povey breathed again.  Fan had had more luck than she deserved, for the result might have been simply anything.  Her owners forgave her and disposed of these fruits of iniquity, and then married her lawfully to a husband who was so high up in the world that he could demand a dowry.  And now Fan was a grandmother, with fixed ideas and habits, and a son in the house, and various grandchildren scattered over the town.  Fan was a sedate and disillusioned dog.  She knew the world as it was, and in learning it she had taught her owners above a bit.

Then there was Maggie Hollins.  Constance could still vividly recall the self-consciousness with which she had one day received Maggie and the heir of the Hollinses; but it was a long time ago.  After staggering half the town by the production of this infant (of which she nearly died) Maggie allowed the angels to waft it away to heaven, and everybody said that she ought to be very thankful—­at her age.  Old women dug up out of their minds forgotten histories of the eccentricities of the goddess Lucina.  Mrs. Baines was most curiously interested; she talked freely to Constance, and Constance began to see what an incredible town Bursley had always been—­and she never suspected it!  Maggie was now mother of other children, and the draggled, lame mistress of a drunken home, and looked sixty.  Despite her prophecy, her husband had conserved his ‘habits.’  The Poveys ate all the fish they could, and sometimes more than they enjoyed, because on his sober days Hollins invariably started his round at the shop, and Constance had to buy for Maggie’s sake.  The worst of the worthless husband was that he seldom failed to be cheery and polite.  He never missed asking after the health of Mrs. Baines.  And when Constance replied that her mother was ‘pretty well considering,’ but that she would not come over to Bursley again until the Axe railway was opened, as she could not stand the drive, he would shake his grey head and be sympathetically gloomy for an instant.