“I don’t fancy I’ll give any trouble over any o’ them things,” Mrs. Clapham put in, feeling she simply couldn’t stand another sentence just then that began with the word “not.” It was just Mrs. Bell’s way, she was saying diligently to herself, and she must do her best not to mind it. Nearly everybody had their “way,” which you had to poke through before you discovered the person underneath. When she had succeeded in poking through Mrs. Bell’s, they would no doubt get on like smoke. Martha Jane, though, would never have understood Mrs. Bell’s peculiar “way,” and it was more than certain that Mrs. Bell would never have understood Martha Jane’s. In the safety of possession Mrs. Clapham could afford to chuckle at the thought of Martha Jane faced with these various ordinances—Martha Jane, who never bought anything she could manage to borrow, who was throng as a magpie about other people’s affairs, and was always idling and chattering out in the street! “Nay, you’ll find me easy enough to do with,” she hastened to affirm again, fearful that Mrs. Bell might fish up another rule. “I’ve had a pretty hard life, one way and another, and all I’m asking for is a bit o’ quiet. It’ll be summat new for me to find myself with only my own spot to see to, and such a handsome-like spot at that!” She looked admiringly, as she spoke, round the cosy little kitchen with its excellent furniture and sensible grate, and its owner had to repress a quiver of pride before producing the requisite sniff. “They’re well enough as they go,” she replied loftily, “though I’m not saying they haven’t their drawbacks. Seems to me they might have made the rooms bigger while they was about it, and put in a deal more cupboards and shelves. Furniture’s right enough, I suppose, though I don’t hold with oak myself. Mahogany’s a deal more tasty,” Mrs. Bell finished, with her nose in the air; “but there, you couldn’t expect an old gentleman to go thinking o’ things like that!” “Ay, but that’s just what he _did_ think about!” Mrs. Clapham defended him stoutly, hurt by this callous assessing of the old man’s gift. “I was at his Lancashire place more than once, and, my goodness, but wasn’t it grand! And he took every bit as much pains wi’ these spots as he ever did with his own. I reckon he chose oak for t’ houses because he thought it would last.” “Ay, but fashions change, even in almshouses,” Mrs. Bell observed, truthfully enough, and with a sententious air. “I don’t say they won’t last our time. I don’t say they’re not good enough for you and me. But it’s queer to me, all the same, if the folks as come after don’t want summat a sight different!” “Ah, well, they’ll do _me_ all right, and a bit over!” Mrs. Clapham laughed, getting ready for stirring. Her heart had settled back into its usual stride, and her legs felt really like legs, instead of bundles of cotton-wool. “I’ll best be moving on again, though I’ve been glad of the rest. Happen you’ll be kind enough to give me the key.”