Her mistress appealed to her by name, and she closed the door, explaining a few minutes later that she could not help feeling sorry for the poor fellows who had to sell combs and hair-brushes; at the same time, they had no right to annoy people who had work to do beside answering knocks. Later, her mistress asked her to refrain from singing. Irene’s voice would never have taken her to the concert platform, but her theory of music was so excellent that it may be worth while to give some particulars here. When affairs of the world went crooked, with her mistress temporarily short in temper, streets becoming muddy directly that the front step had been whitened, disaster on the stairs with a breakfast tray, then Irene selected airs of the cheeriest description, bursting into: “When Jones, my friend, came round to me, He said, ‘Will you go on the spree?’ I answered ‘Yes, of course I will, That is, if you will pay the bill.’” and other songs of a rollicking nature. On the other hand, when the world went smoothly and nothing happened of a contrary nature and her mistress had given her an egg with her tea, then Irene’s voice came lugubriously up from the basement: “Oh I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower, For I’m leaving her and Britain’s gallant shower, Though my tears are gently falling, yet I hear her voice a-calling, But I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower.” Changes had, as mentioned, been coming over the girl, but they proved more obvious at the period when the young man referred to adopted the procedure of waiting outside the house of an evening, sometimes offering three stamps with the foot, sometimes giving a whistle, sometimes playing on the railings a mandoline solo, sometimes, after a wait of three-quarters of an hour, affecting in an ostentatious way to leave—when all other plans had failed—and bringing Irene up the steps of the area at a run, and with a call of “Hi!”