“My boiler was no business o’ theirs,” says the good woman, hotly; “but if they said they’d send, they hought to hev sent. But there! that’s them ladies all over, in and out, and to and fro, and it’s how’s my soul? and how’s my dust-bin? and hev I faith? and hev I a patent kitchener? and do I read my Bible? and do I keep the traps on my drains? and do I see the blessin’s o’ eddication? and do I keep my sink flushed? and am I an abstainer? and do I use carbolic acid? Such a pack o’ nonsense, and in they comes without rappin’; and if they sees a bit o’ dust in a corner ’tis ‘Lord, Mrs. Brown, don’t ye know as dust is microbes, and microbes is sartain death?’ And I says, says I, ‘No, marm, my leddy, my granny lived to ninety-six, and on her ninetieth birthday she walked four miles to market at Winchester and back, and she allus said to all o’ us as dust was wholesome, and cobwebs too, and shouldn’t ne’er be interfered with----’” She stops, out of breath, and the listening policeman smiles again. “People were more robust in those days, Mrs. Brown,” remarked Bertram. “Yes, sir, there weren’t so many doctors all over the place. When I was a gal, in our village there weren’t a doctor within twenty mile; and nobody never was ill. Nowadays young and old is allus talking about their livers and lights till they fret theirselves into sickness.” “That is very possible. Science is much to blame for teaching humanity to concentrate the mind on the body. There I wholly agree with you.” Mrs. Brown picks up her load of linen, which she has momentarily rested on the back of the bench. “Well, sir, you’ll please excuse me, but I can’t stand chatterin’ here. We pore has got our work to do. That’s what I says to them ladies when they come botherin.’ I says, says I, ‘We pore has our work to do, and when ’tis done we want to sit still, and put our feet up, and take a cup o’ tea, and doze like; we don’t want to go strammarkin’ about to your concerts, and your readin’s, and your mothers’ meetin’s, and all them rubbishes, and see a duchess playin’ a banjo or hear a duke sing “Hot Codlins.”’ Let ’em keep in their place, and we’ll keep in ours. That’s what I says, sir, and I bring up my children to say it arter me.” “Oh, I am aware, Mrs. Brown, you and those who resemble you, are a terrible stumbling-block to progress.” “Please don’t call me names, sir. I’m a pore workin’ woman, but I’m one as hev allus kep’ my head above water. You’re in one speer, and we’re in another, as I hev allus told ye, but all the same I choose to be respecket.” “My dear creature, no one can respect you more profoundly than I do.” But Mrs. Brown is not appeased by this assurance; walks away in high dudgeon; there is meanwhile a great noise of yelling and shouting in the distance near the statue of Achilles. “What are they doing?” Bertram asks of the constable, who, touching his helmet, answers: