s not the fashion; it's the thing to starve.'

'It's not a bit o' good you tellin' 'im _that_, for 'e says 'e can afford
a Lord Mayor's banquet every day 'e likes, an' 'e 'll 'ave it, an' 'e
can't abear to see you sittin' there pickin' at a bit o' chicken, an' not
even takin' whisky-an'-soda wi' him.'

'Well, I must go and dress for this Lord Mayor's banquet, and so must
you, mother; so go and put on your black silk,' he remarked, as he rose
lazily from his arm-chair.

'Not that old dress, dear; it's so plain an' dowdy. I've somethin' better
than that;' and, looking as pleased as a young girl at his interest in
her dress, she went off nodding and smiling at the thought of the
pleasure she was going to give him at sight of her new finery.

George Clay was just going to beg her not to put on anything better than
the black silk, but on second thoughts checked himself. After all, if it
pleased her that was the chief thing, not to mention that his father
would probably think her choice more suited to his banquet, for such the
dinners at the Clays' might well be called.

On her way to her own room Mrs Clay had to pass her daughter's suite of
rooms, and after a little hesitation she knocked at the door of her
boudoir.

'Come in,' said a voice, and she entered.

Sarah was sitting on the wide window-seat, looking out over the park
towards the town, the tall factory chimneys of which could be seen, at
the bottom of the hill, belching out their volumes of smoke, which made
even the trees in the park unfit to touch, thanks to the soot it
deposited upon their leaves, stems, and trunks.

'W'y, Sairey, ain't you goin' to begin to dress? W'y 'asn't Naomi put out
your things?' exclaimed her mother.

'I'm not coming down to-night; I don't want to see your husband,' said
Sarah, still staring out into the park.

'My 'usband, indeed! Who do you think you're talkin' to? You seem to
forget I'm your own mother, an' that my 'usband, as you call 'im, is your
father, miss! 'Usband, indeed!' cried Mrs Clay.

'You're sure there's no mistake, mother? You're sure he _is_ my father? I
sometimes wonder if I could have been kidnapped as a baby, and changed.'

But she got no further, for little Mrs Clay could stand no more. 'You're
my child, Sairey. Though you're a deal better-lookin' than ever I was,
you are like enough for any one to know I'm your mother,' she protested.

'I wish to goodness I wasn't! Oh mother, don't look like that! I di