THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!' MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.' DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.' The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door. MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be having some last words to say to her.' DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.' He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house. MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. 'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.' All three present him with the cigarettes. MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.' THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm though it may not be gold-tipped.' DOWEY. 'You bricks!' THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.' DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but--but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.' It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls. 'Old lady.' She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow. 'Is it time?' An encouraging voice answers her.