To Mrs. Hearty, laughter came as an impulse and an agony. She would implore the world at large not to make her laugh, heaving and shaking as she protested. She was good-natured, easy-going, and popular with her friends, who marvelled at what it was she had seen in the sedate and decorous Mr. Hearty to prompt her to marry him.

During her sister's paroxysm, Mrs. Bindle preserved a dignified silence. She always deplored Mrs. Hearty's lack of self-control.

"There are the neighbours to consider," she continued at length. Mrs.

Bindle's thoughts were always with her brother-in-law. "Look how low her blouse was."

"It's 'ealthy," puffed Mrs. Hearty, who could always be depended upon to find excuses for a black sheep's blackness.

"I call it disgusting." Mrs. Bindle's mouth shut with a snap.

"You----" Mrs. Hearty's reply was stifled in a sudden fit of coughing.

She heaved and struggled for breath, while her face took on a deep purple hue.

Mrs. Bindle rose and proceeded to bestow a series of resounding smacks with the flat of her hand upon Mrs. Hearty's ample back. There was a heartiness in the blows that savoured of the Old rather than the New Testament.

Nearly five minutes elapsed before Mrs. Hearty was sufficiently recovered to explain that a crumb had gone the wrong way.

"Serves you right for encouraging that girl in her wickedness," was Mrs.

Bindle's unsympathetic comment as she returned to her chair. Vaguely she saw in her sister's paroxysm, the rebuke of a frowning Providence.

"You wasn't always like wot you are now," complained Mrs. Hearty at length.

"I never dressed anything like that girl." There was a note of fierceness in Mrs. Bindle's voice, "and I defy you to say I did, Martha Hearty, so there."

"Didn't I 'ave to speak to you once about your stockings?" Mrs. Hearty's recent attack seemed to have rendered speech easier.

"No wonder you choke," snapped Mrs. Bindle angrily, "saying things like that."

"Didn't the boys shout after you 'yaller legs'?" she gasped, determined to get the full flavour out of the incident. "They wasn't worn coloured then."

"I wonder you aren't afraid of being struck dead," cried Mrs. Bindle furiously.

"And you goin' out in muslin and a thin petticoat, and yer legs showin'

through and the lace on----"

"Don't you dare----" Mrs. Bindle stopped, her utterance strangled. Her face was scarlet, and in her eyes was murder. She was conscious that her past was a past of vanity; but those were days she had put behind her, days when she would spend every penny she could sc.r.a.pe together upon her person.

But Mrs. Hearty was oblivious to the storm of anger that her words had aroused in her sister's heart. The recollection of the yellow stockings and the transparent muslin frock was too much for her, and she was off into splutters and wheezes of mirth, among which an occasional "Oh don't!" was distinguishable.

"I don't know what's coming to girls, I'm sure," cried Mrs. Bindle at length. She had to some extent regained her composure, and was desirous of turning the conversation from herself. She lived in fear of her sister's frankness; Mrs. Hearty never censored a wardrobe before speaking of it.

"They're a lot of brazen hussies," continued Mrs. Bindle, "displaying themselves like they do. I can't think why they do it."

"Men!" grunted Mrs. Hearty.

"Don't be disgusting, Martha."

"You always was a fool, Lizzie," said Mrs. Hearty good-humouredly.

Mrs. Bindle was determined not to allow the subject of Alice's indelicate display of her person to escape her. She had merely been waiting her opportunity to return to the charge.

"You should think of Mr. Hearty," she said unctuously; "he's got a position to keep up, and people will talk, seeing that girl going out like that."

At this, Mrs. Hearty once more became helpless with suppressed laughter.

Her manifold chins vibrated, tears streamed down her cheeks, and she wheezed and gasped and struck her chest, fierce, resounding blows.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" she gasped at length. "You'll be the death of me, Lizzie,"

and then another wave of laughter a.s.sailed her, and she was off again.

Presently, as the result of an obvious effort, she spluttered, "'E likes it, too," she ended in a little scream of laughter. "You watch him. Oh, oh, I shall die!" she gasped.

"Martha, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she cried angrily.

"You're as bad as Bindle."

For fully a minute, Mrs. Hearty rocked and heaved, as she strove to find utterance for something that seemed to be stifling her.

"You don't know Alf!" she gasped at length, as she mopped her face with the dingy pocket-handkerchief. "Alice gives notice," she managed to gasp. "Alf tries to kiss----" and speech once more forsook her.

The look in Mrs. Bindle's eyes was that she usually kept for blasphemers. Mr. Hearty was the G.o.d of her idolatry, impeccable, austere and unimpeachable. The mere suggestion that he should behave in a way she would not expect even Bindle to behave, filled her with loathing, and she determined that her sister would eventually share the fate of Sapphira.

"Martha, you're a disgrace," she cried, rising. "You might at least have the decency not to drag Mr. Hearty's name into your unclean conversation. I think you owe him an apology for----"

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Hearty entered.

"Didn't you, Alf?" demanded Mrs. Hearty.

"Didn't I what, Martha?" asked Mr. Hearty in a thin, woolly voice. "Good evening, Elizabeth," he added, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

"Didn't you try to kiss Alice, and she slapped your face?" Mrs. Hearty once more proceeded to mop her streaming eyes with her handkerchief. The comedy was good; but it was painful.

For one fleeting moment Mr. Hearty was unmasked. His whole expression underwent a change. There was fear in his eyes. He looked about him like a hunted animal seeking escape. Then, by a great effort, he seemed to re-a.s.sert control over himself.

"I--I've forgotten to post a letter," he muttered, and a second later the door closed behind him.

"'E's always like that when I remind him," cried Mrs. Hearty, "always forgotten to post a letter."

"Martha," said Mrs. Bindle solemnly, as she resumed her seat, "you're a wicked woman, and to-night I shall ask G.o.d to forgive you."

"Make it Alf instead," cried Mrs. Hearty.

Five minutes later, Mr. Hearty re-entered the parlour, looking furtively from his wife to Mrs. Bindle. He was a spare man of medium height, with an iron-grey moustache and what Bindle described as "'alleluia whiskers"; but which the world knows as mutton-chops. He was a man to whom all violence, be it physical or verbal, was distasteful. He preferred diplomacy to the sword.

"Oo's got it, Alf?" enquired Mrs. Hearty, suddenly remembering the chapel choir and her husband's aspirations.

"Mr. Coplestone." The natural woolliness of Mr. Hearty's voice was emphasised by the dejection of disappointment; but his eyes told of the relief he felt that Alice was no longer to be the topic of conversation.

"It's a shame, Mr. Hearty, that it is."