His latest piece of work was a medal in high relief bearing the heads of the Prince and Princess of Wales surrounded with a wreath.

Bob had no political convictions; with complacency he drew these royal features, the sight of which would have made his father foam at the mouth.

True, he might have found subjects artistically more satisfying, but he belonged to the people, and the English people.
Jack Bartley, having dried his eyes and swallowed his bread and butter, considered the medal with much attention.
'I say,' he remarked at length, 'will you give me this, Bob ?' 'I don't mind, You can take it if you like.' 'Thanks!' Jack wrapped it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and before long rose to take leave of his friends.
'I only wish I'd got a wife like you,' he observed at the door, as he saw Pennyloaf bending over the two children, recently put to bed.
Pennyloaf's eyes gleamed at the compliment, and she turned them to her husband.
'She's nothing to boast of,' said Bob, judicially and masculinely.

'All women are pretty much alike.' And Pennyloaf tried to smile at the snub.
Having devoted one evening to domestic quietude, Bob naturally felt himself free to dispose of the next in a manner more to his taste.

The pleasures which sufficed to keep him from home had the same sordid monotony which characterises life in general for the lower strata of society.