At No. 5 Liston Street, Poppy Tyrell sat at the open window of her room reading. The outside air was pleasant, despite the fact that Poplar is a somewhat crowded neighbourhood, and it was rendered more pleasant by comparison with the atmosphere inside, which, from a warm, soft smell not to be described by comparison, suggested washing. In the stone-paved yard beneath the window, a small daughter of the house hung out garments of various hues and shapes, while inside, in the scullery, the master of the house was doing the family washing with all the secrecy and trepidation of one engaged in an unlawful task. The Wheeler family was a large one, and the wash heavy, and besides misadventures to one or two garments, sorted out for further consideration, the small girl was severely critical about the colour, averring sharply that she was almost ashamed to put them on the line. “They’ll dry clean,” said her father, wiping his brow with the upper part of his arm, the only part which was dry; “and if they don’t we must tell your mother that the line came down. I’ll show these to her now.” He took up the wet clothes and, cautiously leaving the scullery, crossed the passage to the parlour, where Mrs. Wheeler, a confirmed invalid, was lying on a ramshackle sofa, darning socks. Mr. Wheeler coughed to attract her attention, and with an apologetic expression of visage held up a small, pink garment of the knickerbocker species, and prepared for the worst. “They’ve never shrunk like that?” said Mrs. Wheeler, starting up. “They have,” said her husband, “all by itself,” he added, in hasty self-defence. “You’ve had it in the soda,” said Mrs. Wheeler, disregarding. “I’ve not,” said Mr. Wheeler, vehemently. “I’ve got the two tubs there, flannels in one without soda, the other things in the other with soda. It’s bad stuff, that’s what it is. I thought I’d show you.” “It’s management they want,” said Mrs. Wheeler, wearily; “it’s the touch you have to give ’em. I can’t explain, but I know they wouldn’t have gone like that if I’d done ’em. What’s that you’re hiding behind you?” Thus attacked, Mr. Wheeler produced his other hand, and shaking out a blue and white shirt, showed how the blue had been wandering over the white territory, and how the white had apparently accepted a permanent occupation. “What do you say to that?” he enquired, desperately. “You’d better ask Bob what he says,” said his wife, aghast; “you know how pertickler he is, too. I told you as plain as a woman could speak, not to boil that shirt.” “Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Wheeler, with a philosophy he hoped his son would imitate. “I wasn’t brought up to the washing, Polly.” “It’s a sin to spoil good things like that,” said Mrs. Wheeler, fretfully. “Bob’s quite the gentleman—he will buy such expensive shirts. Take it away, I can’t bear to look at it.” Mr. Wheeler, considerably crestfallen, was about to obey, when he was startled by a knock at the door.