Within five minutes Rowles came back from his garden with a basket of fresh-smelling vegetables. He gave it to his wife, saying, "You be off, or you'll miss your train. Give them my love when they get up this evening. There's a call for the 'Lock a-hoy!' And here they come, girls in flannels and sailor hats, rowing for their lives, and men lolling on the cushions with fans and parasols." The husband went to open the gates for one of those water-parties which are to be seen nowhere but on the Thames, and Mrs. Rowles set off to walk to Littlebourne station. She met with no adventures on her journey; reached Paddington safely, took an omnibus into the city, and then walked to one of the smaller streets on the eastern side of London. This street was one which began with good, well-kept houses, and dwindled away into small ones out of repair. About the middle of the street Mrs. Rowles stopped, and went up on the door-step of a neat-looking house, every window of which had white curtains and flower-pots. She pulled the bell-handle which was second from the top in a row of handles at the side of the door, and put her basket down to rest herself, summoning up a kindly smile with which to greet her sister-in-law, Mary Mitchell. The air of London was heavy and the sunshine pale to Mrs. Rowles's thinking, and the sky overhead was a very pale blue. There were odd smells about; stale fish and brick-fields seemed to combine, and that strange fusty odour which infects very old clothes. Mrs. Rowles preferred the scent of broad beans and pinks. It was some time before the door was opened, and then a young woman appeared, holding it just ajar. "Well, Mary, my dear--oh, I declare, it is not Mary!" "Would you please to say who you want?" The young woman was not over polite. "I have come up from the country to see my sister-in-law, Mary Mitchell. I beg your pardon, my dear, if I rang the wrong bell." "Mrs. Mitchell don't live here," was the short reply. "Not live here! Whatever do you mean?" "I mean what I say; are you deaf? Mrs. Mitchell left here near upon six months ago." "Oh!" said Mrs. Rowles, much astonished; "I never thought of such a thing. Whatever shall I do? And all this green stuff to carry back again." "Can't you take it to her?" asked the young woman more gently. "I don't know where she has gone to. Australia most likely." "Australia, indeed! She has only gone to the other end of the street, No. 103. And when you can't pay your rent, and three weeks running on to four, what can you expect from your landlord?" The door was closed, and Mrs. Rowles left standing on the step, greatly shocked and agitated. Had the Mitchells been turned out by their landlord for not paying their rent? Had they grown dishonest? Had Mitchell taken to drink? What could it mean?