‘You may well ask that, sir. But ’tis more easy asked than told. How did he do such things? None can say. He never lost his temper; he never raised his voice, he never laughed—not out loud. And he looked at you in that queer, wondering way. And then his manners, and his politeness! And he never give in to nobody. ‘Time went on, and he prospered. He was clever at his job, having the London tricks, and he went about attending on gentlemen’s houses. His ’ealth come back, and he got smarter and younger looking, and he wore a white collar and a white shirt every day, even under his apron. How ’e could abear they collars I can’t think. When my wife puts one on me I feels like a bird in a cage. But there, I s’pose it is all use. His white linen used to shine, and his eyes shine through his glasses. And he painted his ’ouse white, and put boxes of flowers in the windows. He rigged up a big red and white barber’s pole, and on Sundays he ’oisted the Jack on it. He did well, and we was proud of him. ‘And then, well then, just as everything was going so well, what do you think happened, sir?’ ‘Perhaps I can guess,’ I said. ‘The ladies. They took a hand?’ ‘They did, sir. They did. They’d looked on Mr. Harris all along with scorn, and troubled noth’en about him. Then all of a sudden it come to ’em how blind they’d been. And that here were a nice young man, for he were only a little over thirty, with collars and shirts and a business, and beautiful manners, and a white house with flowers in boxes, and all agoing begging. From that moment he hadn’t a single hour’s peace. They was all at him, though the old ’uns was the wust. They sent him things to eat, and tried to get him to convoy ’em back from church. Old Widow Paul were took ill on his door-step and had to be carried into the shop. Miss Belcher, she as married pore old Tom Cole after he ’ad broke his leg, attacked him on his business side, and sent him a parcel of combings to be made up. Me and a lot o’ chaps was there when they come, and all I can say is, if they was all out of her ’ead, she must have ’ad a scalp like a tortoise-shell cat. ‘But it was all o’ no use. Mr. Harris didn’t like any o’ them, maid or widow, and he kept away from ’em. He was well guarded too; always there were someone in his shop. And the old woman who kep’ house for him, her ’usband being in an ’ome for uncurables, helped to keep ’em off. ‘Well, sir, things jogged along quite comfortable like till a queer thing happened. Me and Jenkyns was in his shop one brisk morning, when Tom, who ’ad a drop o’ beer in him as usual, winks at me and says: ‘“You did ought to see my sister-in-law, Mr. Harris,” says he; “she’d be the very young lady for you!” ‘Mr. Harris was stropping a razor. He looks round in his queer blinky way, but instead o’ putting Tom down he says: ‘“And what might she be like, Mr. Jenkyns?”