I doubt if she ever got more work to do. She never received outdoor relief, according to her because of some misunderstanding between the parish church and hers, for, being Irish, she was a devout Roman Catholic. I do not know how she lived, though perhaps they could have told me in her slum, nobody, they say, being as good to the poor as the poor themselves. But it was part of her delicacy to take herself off our hands and conscience within less than a year of her leaving us, and to die in her room peacefully of pneumonia, when she might have made us uncomfortable by dying of starvation, or lingering on in the workhouse. Mr. Pooley, the sweep, brought this news too. She was buried decent, he volunteered; she had taken care of that, though as poor as you want to see. A good old woman, he added, and it was all the obituary she had. He was right. She was of the best, but then she was only one "of the millions of bubbles" poured into existence to-day to vanish out of it to-morrow, of whom the world is too busy to keep count. After Mrs. Burden, I went to the _Quartier_--the French Quarter in Soho--for a charwoman. Had I been tempted, as I never was, to believe in the _entente cordiale_, of which England was just then beginning to make great capital, affairs in my own kitchen would have convinced me of the folly of it. Things there had come to a pass when any pretence of cordiality, except the cordial dislike which France and England have always cherished for each other and always will, had been given up, and if I hoped to escape threats of police and perpetual squabbles on the subject of cleanliness, there was nothing for it but to adopt a single-race policy. When it came to deciding which that race should be, I did not hesitate, having found out for myself that the French are as clean as the English believe themselves to be. The _Quartier_ could not be more French if it were in the heart of France. There is nothing French that is not to be had in it, from snails and _boudin_ to the _Petit Journal_ and the latest thing in _aperitifs_. The one language heard is French, when it is not Italian, and the people met there have an animation that is not a characteristic of Kensington or Bayswater. The only trouble is that if the snails are of the freshest and the _aperitifs_ bear the best mark, the quality of the people imported into the _Quartier_ is more doubtful. Many have left their country for their country's good. When I made my mission known, caution was recommended to me by _Madame_ who presides _chez le patissier_, and _Monsieur le Gros_, as he is familiarly known, who provides me with groceries, and M. Edmond from whom I buy my vegetables and salads at the _Quatre Saisons_. England, in the mistaken name of liberty, then opened her door to the riff-raff of all nations, and French prisons were the emptier for the indiscriminate hospitality of Soho, or so I was assured by the decent French who feel the dishonour the _Quartier_ is to France.