Simpson (who was rather a darling in those days) to buy our furniture, and how I, sighing after a heavy day amongst the suites, had said: “I think we have done everything now except the ornaments for the drawing-room mantelpiece.” “Yes,” I said dreamily to the foreman, “everything is to go please--the drawing-room ornaments--and the overmantel--and the cosy corner--and the what-not.” “I beg pardon, m’m,” he interrupted, “they’ll be in the drawing-room, I suppose. I don’t see what you’re describing here.” “I am sorry,” said I. “It was your friend, Mrs. Simpson, who put me out for the moment.” “I think there must be some slight mistake, m’m,” he said, “I don’t seem to remember a Mrs. Simpson.” “No, no,” I answered, making a great effort to possess myself again, “of course there is no such person; I know that. But now we really must get on.” “You leave everything to me, mum,” he assured me, “and we’ll move everything, just as it is now.” “But, please,” I begged, “I don’t want everything moved. You know I said that a few minutes ago. There is a lot of rubbish in the house that is not to go at all. You will be very careful, won’t you, not to take what is marked “not to go”? He promised, with tears of enthusiasm in his eyes, and he took everything, without exception. I found an old potato, that Ruth had left in the sink, sprouting under the spare room bed a fortnight after we moved in; it had a large white label round its neck with “not to go” printed on it. I was so worked up by this discovery that I wrote to the foreman about it, and he replied that he was very sorry; it had been a misunderstanding. He understood that No. 2 bedroom was the servants’ apartment, it seemed so bare. I had really had a good dose of Mrs. Simpson before the foreman assaulted me with her. She was a great friend of the house-agent. He had acted for her for years, and I had a sickening day in her shape when we were looking for houses. The first agent I went to brought her with him to the door of a residential mansion he wished to dispose of. He attired me in her garments while we were waiting for the caretaker. “I expect you manage to get your own way pretty well in the matter of decorations, don’t you?” he began. “I notice the ladies generally do.” I became Mrs. Simpson at once. “Oh yes,” I said, “my husband is much too busy to take notice of these things. It wouldn’t do to trouble the gentlemen with them, would it?” Then I threw Mrs. Simpson to the ground and trampled on her.