“It’ll be a comfort to me, ma’am,” said the landlady mournfully, “to have a merry party about the house. The only thing is—I don’t mean anything personal—but I’ve generally found that when parties were cheerful, they turned out to be rather bad payers.” Mrs. Rollinson produced her pass-book; exhibited figures showing the balance to her credit. “That’s good enough,” said the other, with something like rapture. She was leaving the room, but curiosity detained her at the edge of the carpet. “You must have had some rare strokes of luck, in your day, ma’am!” Mrs. Rollinson shook her head resolutely. “It’s all been saved out of hard work,” she declared. “I was half hoping,” remarked the landlady, relapsing into gloom, “it was a case of easy come, easy go!” The expected callers did not arrive on the first Sunday afternoon, although tea was prepared, crumpets ready, and Mrs. Rollinson had rehearsed several amiable speeches to be addressed to her daughter-in-law. So soon as it became dusk she walked down to Southampton Row, and from the opposite side of the roadway took a view. The shop was shuttered, and, alarmed by this—Sunday evening was one of the best times for receipts—she crossed, and read the notice. Retail Department Closed, said the bills. Central Office of the English Tobacco Syndicate. Branches all over the Country. Capital—and here so many figures (mainly noughts) that Mrs. Rollinson could not reckon them. “Slippery money,” she said, on the way home. She paid the cabman in threepenny pieces, and he remarked that she might as well also hand over the offertory bag. Young Mrs. George Rollinson delayed her call for nearly two years, and then she had no occasion to pay a fare; her manner when, on leaving Chalk Farm, she said to the coachman— “Home, Watson!”