Eden Villa, however, had been to let for at least three weeks, when one fine day the milkman noticed the board was down and white curtains were up. The milkman, also observing straw in front of the gate and in the roadway, concluded at once that a new tenant had been found and had moved in. Whereupon the milkman left his card, which set forth that he kept separate cows for children and invalids, and that families were waited on daily. The baker and the butcher and the grocer followed on the heels of the milkman, and very soon the young lady with cherry-coloured ribbons in her cap, who answered the successive peals at the bell, got out of temper, and informed all whom it might concern that ‘there wasn’t no family there, and that what they wanted they’d come and fetch.’ What else could cherry-ribbons say? How was she to decide, alone and unaided, between the rival claims of seven milkmen, six butchers, eight grocers, and ten bakers, whose cards made a nice little pack upon the kitchen dresser? Six hours had not elapsed after those white curtains went up before the rates called with a rate already made, and the water applied for two quarters unpaid by last tenant, and the representative of the local directory requested the full christian and surname of the new tenant. ‘Master’s name’s Mr. Edward Marston, and he’s a hactor,’ said cherry-ribbons, flurried and excited with her continuous journeyings to the door. ‘That’s all I know, and he ain’t at home now, so you can’t see him.’ With which exhaustive information cherry-ribbons banged the door to, and bounced angrily into her easy chair, to enjoy her cup of tea and once more to take up the thread of that marvellous serial, ‘A Servant To-day and a Duchess To-morrow,’ which was running with brilliant success from week to week through the pages of the _Housemaids of Merry England_, a journal of fiction and fashion. It was, however, from this scant information that the nobility, gentry, and tradespeople of Camden Road and its vicinity gradually became aware that Eden Villa was now the residence of Mr. Edward Marston, an actor—probably a provincial actor, for his name was unknown to Camden Town in connexion with the London boards. Not being a baker or a milkman intent upon securing a new customer, but simply a veracious chronicler, intent upon making the story of certain people’s lives as clear as possible to the reader, I am quite independent of cherry-ribbons; so, without disturbing her, I will open the front door with my latch-key and usher you straight into the presence of the new tenant. The white curtains have been up three days when we pay our visit in the early morning. This is the breakfast-room on the ground floor. You will observe that the French windows open on to the lawn. The gentleman toying with his toast and sipping his tea leisurely you met one rainy night in the early part of this story.