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“They’re expensive, but they’re worth the money,” ses Gerty. “You are good to me, George. I could go on eating ’em all night, but you mustn’t fling your money away like this always.”

“I’ll see to that,” ses George, very bitter.

“I thought we was going to stand treat to each other? That was the idea, I understood.”

“So we are,” ses Gerty. “Ted stood the ‘bus fares, didn’t he?”

“He did,” ses George, “wot there was of ’em; but wot about you?”

“Me?” ses Gerty, drawing her ‘ead back and staring at ‘im. “Why, ‘ave you forgot that cigar already, George?”

George opened ‘is mouth, but ‘e couldn’t speak a word. He sat looking at ‘er and making a gasping noise in ‘is throat, and fortunately just as ‘e got ‘is voice back the curtain went up agin, and everybody said, “H’sh!”

He couldn’t enjoy the play at all, ‘e was so upset, and he began to see more than ever ‘ow wrong he ‘ad been in taking Bob’s gal away from ‘im. He walked downstairs into the street like a man in a dream, with Gerty sticking to ‘is arm and young Ted treading on ‘is heels behind.

“Now, you mustn’t waste any more money, George,” ses Gerty, when they got outside. “We’ll walk ‘ome.”

George ‘ad got arf a mind to say something about a ‘bus, but he remembered in time that very likely young Ted hadn’t got any more money. Then Gerty said she knew a short cut, and she took them, walking along little, dark, narrow streets and places, until at last, just as George thought they must be pretty near ‘ome, she began to dab her eyes with ‘er pocket-‘andkerchief and say she’d lost ‘er way.

“You two go ‘ome and leave me,” she ses, arf crying. “I can’t walk another step.”

“Where are we?” ses George, looking round.

“I don’t know,” ses Gerty. “I couldn’t tell you if you paid me. I must ‘ave taken a wrong turning. Oh, hurrah! Here’s a cab!”

Afore George could stop ‘er she held up ‘er umbrella, and a ‘ansom cab, with bells on its horse, crossed the road and pulled up in front of ’em. Ted nipped in first and Gerty followed ‘im.

“Tell ‘im the address, dear, and make ‘aste and get in,” ses Gerty.

George told the cabman, and then he got in and sat on Ted’s knee, partly on Gerty’s umbrella, and mostly on nothing.

“You are good to me, George,” ses Gerty, touching the back of ‘is neck with the brim of her hat. “It ain’t often I get a ride in a cab. All the time I was keeping company with Bob we never ‘ad one once. I only wish I’d got the money to pay for it.”

George, who was going to ask a question, stopped ‘imself, and then he kept striking matches and trying to read all about cab fares on a bill in front of ‘im.

“‘Ow are we to know ‘ow many miles it is?” he ses, at last.

“I don’t know,” ses Gerty; “leave it to the cabman. It’s his bisness, ain’t it? And if ‘e don’t know he must suffer for it.”

There was hardly a soul in Gerty’s road when they got there, but afore George ‘ad settled with the cabman there was a policeman moving the crowd on and arf the winders in the road up. By the time George had paid ‘im and the cabman ‘ad told him wot ‘e looked like, Gerty and Ted ‘ad disappeared indoors, all the lights was out, and, in a state o’ mind that won’t bear thinking of, George walked ‘ome to his lodging.

Bob was asleep when he got there, but ‘e woke ‘im up and told ‘im about it, and then arter a time he said that he thought Bob ought to pay arf because he ‘ad saved ‘is life.

“Cert’nly not,” ses Bob. “We’re quits now; that was the arrangement. I only wish it was me spending the money on her; I shouldn’t grumble.”