d many a time since Thyrza had gone away.
She reproached herself in secret for her 'nastiness' to the little one
at their last meeting, nastiness for which, as it proved, there was no
justification whatever. Now she was sad for poor old Mr. Boddy's death.
She knew that it was another hard blow to Lydia, and, as you are aware,
in her heart she respected Lydia profoundly. Her sorrow led to that one
practical result--no more marmalade and pickles from Mrs. Bower. The
Bowers had behaved vilely; from every point of view, that was
demonstrable. Under the circumstances, they ought to have done without
their rent, if need were, till Doomsday when, as Totty understood, all
such arrears are made good to one with the utmost accuracy--nay, with
interest to boot. She had not seen any reason for quarrelling with the
Bowers on the score of the scandal they spread about Thyrza, since
there really seemed ground for their stories; and it was right that
'goings on' of that kind should be put a stop to. Totty would
always--that is, as often as she could--be scrupulously just. But this
last affair was beyond endurance. Not another penny went from her
pocket to 'The Little Shop with the Large Heart.'

Her income this past year had fallen short of what she usually counted
upon; not to a great extent, but the sum deducted had been wont to come
to her as a pure grace, and she felt the loss of it. Her uncle had
omitted to send his usual present on her birthday. Nor had he visited
her to renew the proposal that she should surrender her liberty in
return for being housed and dressed respectably. What did this mean?
Had he--it was probable enough--grown tired of her, and said to himself
that, as she wished to go her own way, go her own way she should? He
was a crusty old fellow. Totty had often wondered that he 'stood her
cheek' so good-humouredly. Yet somehow she did not think it likely that
he would break off intercourse with her in this abrupt way; no, it was
not like him. He would have, at all events, seen her for a last time,
and have given her a well-understood last chance. Was he dead? Possible
enough; his age must be nearer seventy than sixty. If dead, well, there
was an end of it. No more birthday presents; no more offers to 'be made
a lady of.'

It did not greatly matter, of course. Totty could not be expected to
nurture an affection for her crusty uncle with his shop in Tottenham
Court Road; in fact, he had behaved badly to her branch o