She threw open the door of a long sitting-room, smelling of lavender and mignonette, and furnished with worked chairs, old china, a tall wooden clock with a febrile tick, a hearth-rug decorated with blue and yellow roses in wool, and a sour squeezed-looking bookcase which seemed to hold sundry folios under protest, and to threaten the instant ejection of a number of small books on the top shelves, which leaned one against another, some of them gaping apparently in the last extremity of terror. “For yourself, sir? Or might there be children?” “For myself.” “Why, then, sir,” exclaimed the woman, with great alacrity, “I think I can accommodate you. You can have this room, and a bed-room just over it, and the use of the pianner in the next room when you see company, for fourteen shillings a week.” “That will do,” said Holdsworth. The woman, smiling like clockwork, proceeded to inform him that she was a widow, and had nobody else in the house but her mother, who was very aged and silly-like, and only left her room, which was upstairs, once a week for a turn in the garden; that anything more peaceful than her house was never known, and that if the gentleman was studious, he would never be interrupted with noises. She then led him upstairs to the bedroom, which was as comfortable as any man could wish. On their return to the sitting-room, Holdsworth, who was tired, asked permission to rest himself, and sat down near the window which overlooked the road, where he could just obtain a glimpse of Mr. Conway’s house. He broke away from the overpowering thoughts which the sense of the near presence of his wife and child forced upon him, and steadying his voice, turned to the woman who stood at the door, and asked her if she knew any of the people living around. “Why, sir, I know most of my neighbours by name, though I can’t say as e’er a one of ’em are friends of mine.” “I noticed a dentist’s house just now, over the way. What sort of business can he do in such a road as this?” “Oh, you’re speaking of Mr. Conway!” she exclaimed, with a shake of the head. “It’s his own fault if he don’t do a good business, for I hear that he’s pretty clever at making teeth and drawing of them, and the likes of that; but he don’t seem to have no patients, and I know why; but it’s not for me to meddle in other folks’ concerns.” “Why?” “I suppose you’re no friend of his, sir?” she said. “I never saw the gentleman in my life.” “Well, then, to speak plainly, he drinks; and it’s pretty well known; and so there’s no wonder gentlefolks won’t go near him.” Holdsworth forced a look of unconcern into his face as he asked: “Is he married?”