The stairs-door opened, and Mrs. Baines appeared, in bonnet and furs and gloves, all clad for going out.  She had abandoned the cocoon of crape, but still wore weeds.  She was stouter than ever.

“What!” she cried.  “Not ready!  Now really!”

“Oh, mother!  How you made me jump!” Constance protested.  “What time is it?  It surely isn’t time to go yet!”

“Look at the clock!” said Mrs. Baines, drily.

“Well, I never!” Constance murmured, confused.

“Come, put your things together, and don’t keep me waiting,” said Mrs. Baines, going past the table to the window, and lifting the blind to peep out.  “Still snowing,” she observed.  “Oh, the band’s going away at last!  I wonder how they can play at all in this weather.  By the way, what was that tune they gave us just now?  I couldn’t make out whether it was ‘Redhead,’ or—­”

“Band?” questioned Constance—­the simpleton!

Neither she nor Mr. Povey had heard the strains of the Bursley Town Silver Prize Band which had been enlivening the season according to its usual custom.  These two practical, duteous, commonsense young and youngish persons had been so absorbed in their efforts for the welfare of the shop that they had positively not only forgotten the time, but had also failed to notice the band!  But if Constance had had her wits about her she would at least have pretended that she had heard it.

“What’s this?” asked Mrs. Baines, bringing her vast form to the table and picking up a ticket.

Mr. Povey said nothing.  Constance said:  “Mr. Povey thought of it to-day.  Don’t you think it’s very good, mother?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Mrs. Baines coldly replied.

She had mildly objected already to certain words; but ‘exquisite’ seemed to her silly; it seemed out of place; she considered that it would merely bring ridicule on her shop.  ‘Exquisite’ written upon a window-ticket!  No!  What would John Baines have thought of ‘exquisite’?

“‘Exquisite!’” She repeated the word with a sarcastic inflection, putting the accent, as every one put it, on the second syllable.  “I don’t think that will quite do.”

“But why not, mother?”

“It’s not suitable, my dear.”

She dropped the ticket from her gloved hand.  Mr. Povey had darkly flashed.  Though he spoke little, he was as sensitive as he was obstinate.  On this occasion he said nothing.  He expressed his feelings by seizing the ticket and throwing it into the fire.

The situation was extremely delicate.  Priceless employes like Mr. Povey cannot be treated as machines, and Mrs. Baines of course instantly saw that tact was needed.

“Go along to my bedroom and get ready, my pet,” said she to Constance.  “Sophia is there.  There’s a good fire.  I must just speak to Maggie.”  She tactfully left the room.

Mr. Povey glanced at the fire and the curling red remains of the ticket.  Trade was bad; owing to weather and war, destitution was abroad; and he had been doing his utmost for the welfare of the shop; and here was the reward!