a world of frustration, and only the one man in half a million has fate for his friend.
Much Clem cared for antiquities; when she had wearied herself in pretending interest, a seat in an unvisited corner gave her an opportunity for more congenial dialogue.
“How’s Mrs. Pennyloaf?” she asked, with a smile of malice.
“How’s Mr. What’s-his-name Snowdon?” was the reply.
“My husband’s a gentleman. Good thing for me I had the sense to wait.”
“And for me too, I daresay.”
“Why ain’t you at work? Got the sack?”
“I can take a day off if I like, can’t I?”
“And you’ll go ’ome and tell your wife as you’ve been working. I know what you men are. What ‘ud Mrs. Pennyloaf say if she knew you was here with me? You daren’t tell her; you daren’t!”
“I’m not doing any harm as I know of. I shall tell her if I choose, and if I choose I shan’t. I don’t ask her what I’m to do.”
“I daresay. And how does that mother of
