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
