"And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked
out with blue," continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.
Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. "This house is good
enough for me," he roared; "and what's good enough for me is good enough
for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want.
Stained glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in,
do you? Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the
work."
Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.
"We're going to live as we've always lived," pursued Mr. Gribble.
"Money ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just
because I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should
end up in the workhouse."
He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared
away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed
in the smoke-pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose
path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of
the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on
summer afternoons.
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