LITMIR.BIZ

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dropping water into a jar on the slopstone.

      “A school-teacher?” inquired Mrs. Baines.

      “Of course. What other kind is there?” said Sophia, sharply. “With Miss Chetwynd.”

      “I don’t think your father would like that,” Mrs. Baines replied. “I’m sure he wouldn’t like it.”

      “Why not?”

      “It wouldn’t be quite suitable.”

      “Why not, mother?” the girl demanded with a sort of ferocity. She had now quitted the range. A man’s feet twinkled past the window.

      Mrs. Baines was startled and surprised. Sophia’s attitude was really very trying; her manners deserved correction. But it was not these phenomena which seriously affected Mrs. Baines; she was used to them and had come to regard them as somehow the inevitable accompaniment of Sophia’s beauty, as the penalty of that surpassing charm which occasionally emanated from the girl like a radiance. What startled and surprised Mrs. Baines was the perfect and unthinkable madness of Sophia’s infantile scheme. It was a revelation to Mrs. Baines. Why in the name of heaven had the girl taken such a notion into her head? Orphans, widows, and spinsters of a certain age suddenly thrown on the world — these were the women who, naturally, became teachers, because they had to become something. But that the daughter of comfortable parents, surrounded by love and the pleasures of an excellent home, should wish to teach in a school was beyond the horizons of Mrs. Baines’s common sense. Comfortable parents of today who have a difficulty in sympathizing with Mrs. Baines, should picture what their feelings would be if their Sophias showed a rude desire to adopt the vocation of chauffeur.

      “It would take you too much away from home,” said Mrs. Baines, achieving a second pie.

      She spoke softly. The experience of being Sophia’s mother for nearly sixteen years had not been lost on Mrs. Baines, and though she was now discovering undreamt-of dangers in Sophia’s erratic temperament, she kept her presence of mind sufficiently well to behave with diplomatic smoothness. It was undoubtedly humiliating to a mother to be forced to use diplomacy in dealing with a girl in short sleeves. In HER day mothers had been autocrats. But Sophia was Sophia.

      “What if it did?” Sophia curtly demanded.

      “And there’s no opening in Bursley,” said Mrs. Baines.

      “Miss Chetwynd would have me, and then after a time I could go to her sister.”

      “Her sister? What sister?”

      “Her sister that has a big school in London somewhere.”

      Mrs. Baines covered her unprecedented emotions by gazing into the oven at the first pie. The pie was doing well, under all the circumstances. In those few seconds she reflected rapidly and decided that to a desperate disease a desperate remedy must be applied.

      London! She herself had never been further than Manchester. London, ‘after a time’! No, diplomacy would be misplaced in this crisis of Sophia’s development!

      “Sophia,” she said, in a changed and solemn voice, fronting her daughter, and holding away from her apron those floured, ringed hands, “I don’t know what has come over you. Truly I don’t! Your father and I are prepared to put up with a certain amount, but the line must be drawn. The fact is, we’ve spoilt you, and instead of getting better as you grow up, you’re getting worse. Now let me hear no more of this, please. I wish you would imitate your sister a little more. Of course if you won’t do your share in the shop, no one can make you. If you choose to be an idler about the house, we shall have to endure it. We can only advise you for your own good. But as for this . . . ” She stopped, and let silence speak, and then finished: “Let me hear no more of it.”

      It was a powerful and impressive speech, enunciated clearly in such a tone as Mrs. Baines had not employed since dismissing a young lady assistant five years ago for light conduct.

      “But, mother —”

      A commotion of pails resounded at the top of the stone steps. It was Maggie in descent from the bedrooms. Now, the Baines family passed its life in doing its best to keep its affairs to itself, the assumption being that Maggie and all the shop-staff (Mr. Povey possibly excepted) were obsessed by a ravening appetite for that which did not concern them. Therefore the voices of the Baineses always died away, or fell to a hushed, mysterious whisper, whenever the foot of the eavesdropper was heard.

      Mrs. Baines put a floured finger to her double chin. “That will do,” said she, with finality.

      Maggie appeared, and Sophia, with a brusque precipitation of herself, vanished upstairs.

      II

      “Now, really, Mr. Povey, this is not like you,” said Mrs. Baines, who, on her way into the shop, had discovered the Indispensable in the cutting-out room.

      It is true that the cutting-out room was almost Mr. Povey’s sanctum, whither he retired from time to time to cut out suits of clothes and odd garments for the tailoring department. It is true that the tailoring department flourished with orders, employing several tailors who crossed legs in their own homes, and that appointments were continually being made with customers for trying-on in that room. But these considerations did not affect Mrs. Baines’s attitude of disapproval.

      “I’m just cutting out that suit for the minister,” said Mr. Povey.

      The Reverend Mr. Murley, superintendent of the Wesleyan Methodist circuit, called on Mr. Baines every week. On a recent visit Mr. Baines had remarked that the parson’s coat was ageing into green, and had commanded that a new suit should be built and presented to Mr. Murley. Mr. Murley, who had a genuine mediaeval passion for souls, and who spent his money and health freely in gratifying the passion, had accepted the offer strictly on behalf of Christ, and had carefully explained to Mr. Povey Christ’s use for multifarious pockets.

      “I see you are,” said Mrs. Baines tartly. “But that’s no reason why you should be without a coat — and in this cold room too. You with toothache!”

      The fact was that Mr. Povey always doffed his coat when cutting out. Instead of a coat he wore a tape-measure.

      “My tooth doesn’t hurt me,” said he, sheepishly, dropping the great scissors and picking up a cake of chalk.

      “Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Baines.

      This exclamation shocked Mr. Povey. It was not unknown on the lips of Mrs. Baines, but she usually reserved it for members of her own sex. Mr. Povey could not recall that she had ever applied it to any statement of his. “What’s the matter with the woman?” he thought. The redness of her face did not help him to answer the question, for her face was always red after the operations of Friday in the kitchen.

      “You men are all alike,” Mrs. Baines continued. “The very thought of the dentist’s cures you. Why don’t you go in at once to Mr. Critchlow and have it out — like a man?”

      Mr. Critchlow extracted teeth, and his shop sign said “Bone-setter and chemist.” But Mr. Povey had his views.

      “I make no account of Mr. Critchlow as a dentist,” said he.

      “Then for goodness’ sake go up to Oulsnam’s.”

      “When? I can’t very well go now, and tomorrow is Saturday.”

      “Why can’t you go now?”

      “Well, of course, I COULD go now,” he admitted.

      “Let me advise you to go, then, and don’t come back with that tooth in your head. I shall be having you laid up next. Show some pluck, do!”

      “Oh! pluck —!” he protested, hurt.

      At that moment Constance came down the passage singing.

      “Constance, my pet!” Mrs. Baines called.

      “Yes,

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