alacrity with which he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He put on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for making the most of his good looks would.
At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was Morel’s bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack eyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he intended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take charge of him.
Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died of consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her hæmorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two younger children.
“A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!” Mrs. Morel said of him.
“I’ve never known Jerry mean in my life,” protested Morel.
“A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn’t find anywhere, accordin’ to my knowledge.”
“Open-handed to you,” retorted Mrs. Morel. “But his fist is shut tight enough to his children, poor things.”
“Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know.”
But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry’s score.
The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the scullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel’s eye.
“Mornin’, missis! Mester in?”
“Yes—he is.”
Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men and husbands.
“A nice day,” he said to Mrs. Morel.
“Yes.”
“Grand out this moming—grand for a walk.”
“Do you mean you’re going for a walk?” she asked.
“Yes. We mean walkin’ to Nottingham,” he replied.
“H’m!”
The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however,
