Joe drooped his lids over his greenish eyes, and, with a whisk of her head, his wife left the room.

   "Gawd 'elp us!" thought Joe, gazing at his unconscious master, and fingering his pipe; "'ow funny women are! If I was to smoke in 'ere she'd have a fit. I'll just 'ave a whiff in the window, though!" And, leaning out, he drew the curtains to behind him and lighted his pipe.

   The sound of Blink gnawing her bone beneath the bed alone broke the silence.

   "I could do with a pint o' bitter," thought Joe; and, noticing the form of the weekly gardener down below, he said softly:

   "'Ello, Bob!"

   "'Ello?" replied the gardener. "'Ow's yours?"

   "Nicely."

   "Goin' to 'ave some rain?"

   "Ah!"

   "What's the matter with that?"

   "Good for the crops."

   "Missis well?"

   "So, so."

   "Wish mine was."

   "Wot's the matter with her?"

   "Busy!" replied Joe, sinking his voice. Never 'ave a woman permanent; that's my experience.

   The gardener did not reply, but stood staring at the lilac-bush below Joe Petty's face. He was a thin man, rather like an old horse.

   "Do you think we can win this war?" resumed Joe.

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