Mr. Purnip are quite right.
I can see that now. You can tell him that it was you what put it into my
'art."

"Me? Why, I never dreamt o' such a thing," declared the surprised Mr.
Billing. "And there's other ways of doing good besides asking a pack of
old women in to tea."

"I know there is," said his wife. "All in good time," she added, with a
far-away look in her eyes.

Mr. Billing cleared his throat, but nothing came of it. He cleared it
again.

"I couldn't let you do all the good," said his wife, hastily. "It
wouldn't be fair. I must help."

Mr. Billing lit his pipe noisily, and then took it out into the back-yard
and sat down to think over the situation. The ungenerous idea that his
wife was making goodness serve her own ends was the first that occurred
to him.

His suspicions increased with time. Mrs. Billing's good works seemed to
be almost entirely connected with hospitality. True, she had entertained
Mr. Purnip and one of the ladies from the Settlement to tea, but that
only riveted his bonds more firmly. Other visitors included his sister-
in-law, for whom he had a great distaste, and some of the worst-behaved
children in the street.

"It's only high spirits," said Mrs. Billing; "all children are like that.
And I do it to help the mothers."

"And 'cos you like children," said her husband, preserving his good-
humour with an effort.

There was a touch of monotony about the new life, and the good deeds that
accompanied it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, was apt to pall.
And Elk Street, instead of giving him the credit which was his due,
preferred to ascribe the change in his behaviour to what they called
being "a bit barmy on the crumpet."

He came home one evening somewhat dejected, brightening up as he stood
in the passage and inhaled the ravishing odours from the kitchen. Mrs.
Billing, with a trace of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in view of
the excellent quality of the repast provided, poured him out a glass of
beer, and passed flattering comment upon his appearance.

"Wot's the game?" he inquired.

"Game?" repeated his wife, in a trembling voice. "Nothing. 'Ow do you
find that steak-pudding? I thought of giving you one every Wednesday."

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork and sat regarding her
thoughtfully. Then he pushed back his chair suddenly, and, a picture of
consternation and wrath, held up his hand for silence.

"W-w-wot is it?" he demanded. "A c