Carnival Part 8

"You dare say that, you vulgar beast."

"I shall say just whatever I please. You're struck on him, that's what you are, you soft idiot."

"I'm no such thing," declared Mrs. Raeburn. "Nice thing that a friend of father's can't come and have a cup of tea without your carrying on like a mad thing."

"Not so much 'cup of tea,' Mrs. Raeburn. It's not the tea I minds. It's while the kettle's boiling as I objects to."

"You're drunk," said the wife scornfully.

"And it's ---- lucky I am drunk. You're enough to make a fellow drunk with your la-di-da behavior. Why, G.o.d help me, Florrie, you've been powdering your face. Let me get hold of the----. I'll learn him to come mucking round another man's wife."

On the very next day Mr. Timpany came to tea for the last time. Possibly Mrs. Raeburn had told her husband it was to be the last time, for he did not put in an appearance. Ruby had gone out by permission. May was secured by a fortified nursing-chair. Alfie was away on some twilight adventure of bells and string. Edie was immerged in a neighboring bas.e.m.e.nt with two friends, a plate of jam, and the cordial teasing of the friends' brother, young Bert; and Jenny, urged on by a pa.s.sionate inquisitiveness, crept along the pa.s.sage and listened to the following conversation:

"You're wasted here, Flo, wasted--a fine woman like you is absolutely wasted. Why won't you come away with me? Come away to-night, I'll always be good to you."

"The children," said their mother.

"They'll get on all right by themselves. Bring the little one--what's her name, with fair hair and dark eyes?"

"Jenny."

"Yes, Jenny. Bring her with you. I don't mind."

"It wouldn't be fair to her. She'd never have a chance."

"Rubbis.h.!.+ She'd have more chance in a cosy little house of your own than stuck in this rat's hole. You'd have a slap-up time, Flo. A nice little Ralli cart, if you're fond of horses, and--oh, come along, come now. I want you."

"No; I've fixed myself up. I was done with life when I married Charlie, and I'm fixed up."

"You're in a cage here," he argued.

"Yes; but I've got my nest in it," she said.

"Then it's good-bye?"

"Good-bye."

"I'm d.a.m.ned if I can understand why you won't come. I'd be jolly good to you."

"Good-bye."

"You're a cold woman, aren't you?"

"Am I?"

"I think you are."

"It doesn't always do to show one's feelings."

"You're a regular icicle."

"Perhaps," whispered Mrs. Raeburn.

Jenny stole back to the kitchen greatly puzzled. Whether the florid Mr.

Timpany kissed Mrs. Raeburn before he went out to look for the hansom cab that was to jingle him out of her life, I do not know; but she waved to him once as she saw him look round under a lamp post, for Jenny had crept back and was standing beside her when she did so.

"You come on in, you naughty girl," said Mrs. Raeburn, drowning love in a copper bubbling with clothes.

"Would you like that man better than father?" Jenny inquired presently, pausing in the erection of a tower of bricks for the benefit of May, who watched with somber eyes the quivering feat of architecture.

"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Raeburn sharply.

"Would you like father to go away and never, never come back here along of us ever again and always have that man?"

"Of course, I shouldn't, you silly child."

"I would."

"You would?"

"Yes," said Jenny; "he smelt nice."

"Ah, miss, when one's married, one's married."

"Could I be married?"

"When you grow up. Of course."

"Could I have little boys and girls?"

"Of course you could if you were married."

"Could I have lots and lots?"

"More than you bargain for, I daresay," declared her mother.

"Did you marry to have a little girl like me?"

"Perhaps."

Encouraged by her mother's unusual amenity to questions, Jenny went on:

"Did you really, though?"

"For that and other reasons."

"Were you glad when you saw me first?"

"Very glad."