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thee.”

      She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation, half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.

      “I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life — not proper”— and she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.

      Here Meg came along the passage.

      “Come, Gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed — come on.”

      “Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s — it’s not ivry night as we ‘a’e cumpny.”

      “No, let me take you to bed — I’m sure you must be ready.”

      “Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come — no argy-bargyin’.”

      Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save when the dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and bewitching. She turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question, and they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when she started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.

      “La — là— dy — dà— là— dy — dà— dy — dà,” cried the old woman in delight, and she clutched her wineglass.

      “Come on — chink!” she cried, “all together — chink to him!”

      We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank it off. He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that normally were bound down by his caution and self-instinct began to flame out.

      “Here, Aunt!” said he, lifting his tumbler, “here’s to what you want — you know!”

      “I knowed tha’ wor as spunky as ony on’em,” she cried.

      “Tha’ nobbut wanted warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right. It’s a bargain. Chink again, iverybody.”

      “A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass. “What bargain’s that?” said Meg.

      The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips wet with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:

      “There it is — that seals it.”

      Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.

      “Aren’t you comin’, Gran’ma?” she pleaded.

      “Eh, tha’ wants ter ‘orry me off — what’s thai say, George — a deep un, isna ‘er?”

      “Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”

      “Tush — Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ‘rt a slow un, an’ no mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”

      Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.

      “Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened serving-man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.

      “Come an’ kiss me good night, George,” said the old woman — and as he did so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured whisky into her glass and called to the serving-man to drink it. Then, pulling herself up heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken figure looked pitiful beside Meg’s luxuriant form. We heard them slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache and half smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations. Then he poured himself more whisky.

      “I say, steady!” I admonished.

      “What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and laughing.

      Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking, drained his glass, and with a sad “Good night,” creaked off upstairs.

      Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.

      “I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting.

      George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:

      “‘Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.”

      She looked at him, half smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:

      “Let’s ha’e a kiss.”

      Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him.

      “I’m going to marry thee,” he said.

      “Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.

      “I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.

      I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs:

      “Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”

      In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came into the passage.

      “Good night, my lad, good luck to thee!” cried the voice like a ghoul from upper regions.

      He kissed his betrothed a rather hurried good night at the door.

      “Good night,” she replied softly, watching him retreat. Then we heard her shoot the heavy bolts.

      “You know,” he began, and he tried to clear his throat. His voice was husky and strangulated with excitement. He tried again:

      “You know — she — she’s a clinker.”

      I did not reply, but he took no notice.

      “Damn!” he ejaculated. “What did I let her go for!”

      We walked along in silence — his excitement abated somewhat.

      “It’s the way she swings her body — an’ the curves as she stands. It’s when you look at her — you feel — you know.”

      I suppose I knew, but it was unnecessary to say so.

      “You know — if ever I dream in the night — of women — you know — it’s always Meg; she seems to look so soft, and to curve her body —”

      Gradually his feet began to drag. When we came to the place where the colliery railway crossed the road, he stumbled, and pitched forward, only just recovering himself. I took hold of his arm.

      “Good Lord, Cyril, am I drunk?” he said.

      “Not quite,” said I.

      “No,” he muttered, “couldn’t be.”

      But his feet dragged again, and he began to stagger from side to side. I took hold of his arm. He murmured angrily — then, subsiding again, muttered, with slovenly articulation:

      “I feel fit to drop with sleep.”

      Along the dead, silent roadway, and through the uneven blackness of the wood, we lurched and stumbled. He was very heavy and difficult to direct. When at last we came to the brook we splashed straight through the water. I urged him to walk steadily and quietly across the yard. He did his best, and we made a fairly still entry into the farm. He dropped with all his weight on the sofa, and leaning down, began to unfasten his leggings. In the midst of his fumblings he fell asleep, and I was afraid he would pitch forward on to his head. I

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