"Specially women," chimed in the old gentleman. "There's some come regular, and do it, I s'pose, because they likes it. They look at all the houses in the neighbourhood, same as some other ladies always go to sales. They never buy anything; and _they_ never mean to take a house; but they come and look at 'em, all the same." "But we always know them," said the old lady. "Yes, they're easy enough to tell," chuckled the old man. And then, seeing me look inquiringly at him, he went on, "They finds fault with everything, ma'am. The hall's too narrow, or else too broad, and the staircase isn't the right shape. Then they want folding doors to the dining-room; or they don't want folding doors. Sometimes six bed-rooms is too many; some times eight ain't enough. And they always finds fault with the kitchen." "And they always want a fresh paper in the dining-room," said the old lady chiming in; "and the drawing-room paper's too light; and we don't mind them a bit." "No," chuckled the old gentleman; "we're used to them. We know, bless you!" "And I suppose you felt that I did not want a house, eh?" "No, that we didn't," said the old lady; "you see, you came with an order from the agent; while people as don't want houses never takes the trouble to get that, but drops in promiskus where they see the bills up." "One gets to understand people in fifteen years," said the old gentleman, in a quiet subdued way; "and we don't mind. We say all we can for a house, as in dooty bound, for the agent; but it goes against one, same time." "You could not conscientiously recommend this house, then, for a family?" I asked. The old gentleman tightened his lips, and looked at his wife; and the old lady tightened hers, and looked at her husband; but neither spoke. "I see," I said; then, turning the conversation, "you have been at this for years?" "Fifteen ma'am," said the old lady. "You see, when our poor--" "Don't trouble the lady about that," said the old man, with appeal in his voice; but the old lady liked to talk, and went on-- "When our poor Mary died--aged nineteen, ma'am, and as beautiful a girl as ever you saw, and used to help us in the business, keeping the books and writing letters--all seemed to go wrong, and at last we sold out for the best we could make of it, and that just paid our debts--" "All but Tompkins' bill," said the old man correcting. "Yes, all but Tompkins' bill," said the old lady; "but that we paid afterwards. We should have had to go to the parish, only an aunt of mine died and left us a bit of property that brings us in ten shillings a week; which is enough for us so long as we don't pay rent and taxes."