“I should think she did, sir. Many’s the time I’ve heard her talk of him. He was just like you, sir, in his ways, as far as I can gather—very quiet and very studious. She waited upon him for nearly twelve years, so she ought to be a judge of his character.” “I should like to have a chat with your mother some of these days, Mrs. Armstrong.” “Would you, sir? I’m sure she’d be delighted. She loves talking over old times. She’s none of your Radicals, that are all for changing things, like my husband. She looks up to her superiors, and she feels quite proud of having done for Lord Cheriton when he was just like any other young gentleman in Ferret Court. Any time you’d like to step round to our place, sir, mother would be happy to see you. She’d be glad to wait upon you, but she’s crippled with the rheumatics, and it’s as much as she can do to get upstairs of a night and downstairs of a morning.” “I’ll call upon her to-morrow afternoon, if that will be convenient.” “No fear of that, sir. Shall I look round at four o’clock and show you where she lives, sir? It’s not above five minutes’ walk.” “If you please. I shall be very much obliged.” * * * * * Gadbolt’s Lane was one of the obscurest alleys between the Temple and St. Bride’s Church, but it was as well known in the locality as if it had been Regent Street. Thither Mrs. Armstrong conducted her employer on a sultry June afternoon, and admitted him with her own private key into one of the narrowest houses he had ever seen—a house of three stories, with one window in each story, and with a tiny street door squeezed in between the parlour window and the next house—a house which, if it had stood alone, would have been a tower. Upon the narrow street door appeared a wide brass plate inscribed with the name of “J. W. Armstrong, plumber,” and in the parlour window were exhibited various indications of the plumbing trade. On a smaller brass plate just below the knocker appeared the modest legend, “Miss Mobley, ladies’ own materials made up.” The little parlour behind the plumber’s emblems was very close and stuffy upon this midsummer afternoon, for Mrs. Dugget’s complaint necessitated a fire in season and out of season; but it was also spotlessly clean, and preparations had evidently been made for an afternoon tea of an especially delicate character. There was a rack of such thin, dry toast as Mrs. Armstrong’s employer affected, and there was a choice pat of Aylesbury butter, set forth upon the whitest of table-cloths, and flanked by a glass jar of jam, the glass receptacle being of that ornate character which dazzles the purchaser into comparative indifference as to the quality of the jam; just as admiring man, caught by outward beauty, is apt to shut his eyes to the lack of more lasting charms in the way of temper and character.