ren, recently put to bed.

Pennyloaf's eyes gleamed at the compliment, and she turned them to her
husband.

'She's nothing to boast of,' said Bob, judicially and masculinely. 'All
women are pretty much alike.'

And Pennyloaf tried to smile at the snub.

Having devoted one evening to domestic quietude, Bob naturally felt
himself free to dispose of the next in a manner more to his taste. The
pleasures which sufficed to keep him from home had the same sordid
monotony which characterises life in general for the lower strata of
society. If he had money, there was the music-hall; if he had none,
there were the streets. Being in the latter condition to-night, he
joined a company of male and female intimates, and with them strolled
aimlessly from one familiar rendezvous to another. Would that it were
possible to set down a literal report of the conversation which passed
during hours thus spent! Much of it, of course, would be merely
revolting, but for the most part it would consist of such wearying,
such incredible imbecilities as no human patience could endure through
five minutes' perusal. Realise it, however, and you grasp the
conditions of what is called the social problem. As regards Robert
Hewett in particular, it would help you to understand the momentous
change in his life which was just coming to pass.

On his reaching home at eleven o'clock, Pennyloaf met him with the news
that Jack Bartley had looked in twice and seemed very anxious to see
him. To-morrow being Saturday, Jack would call again early in the
afternoon. When the time came, he presented himself, hungry and dirty
as ever, but with an unwonted liveliness in his eye.

'I've got something to say to you,' he began, in a low voice, nodding
significantly towards Pennyloaf.

'Go and buy what you want for to-morrow,' said Bob to his wife, giving
her some money out of his wages. 'Take the kids.'

Disappointed in being thus excluded from confidence, but obedient as
ever, Pennyloaf speedily prepared herself and the children, the younger
of whom she still had to carry. When she was gone Mr. Bartley assumed a
peculiar attitude and began to speak in an undertone.

'You know that medal as you gave me the other night?'

'What about it?'

'I sold it for fourpence to a chap I know. It got me a bed at the
lodgings in Pentonville Road.'

'Oh, you did! Well, what else?'

Jack was writhing in the most unaccountable way, peering hither and
thither out of the corn