The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-time Ranelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which lay Battersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July sunset struck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it with half-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth, but languor held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his thoughts among the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not a sudden noise from within aroused him--the unmistakable crash of falling crockery. It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous expostulation. A minute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his door, and Mrs. Hopper showed her face. "Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words. "Extensive?" "A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir." "Oh, that's nothing." "Of course I shall make them good, sir." "Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?" "Oh, quite enough--just yet, sir." Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door and the jamb--her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served him for three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of her virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate aptitude for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have proved to any visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were by no means rigid, her master had made himself to a certain extent responsible for this defect; he paid little attention to dust, provided that things were in their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not a resident domestic; she came at stated hours. Obviously a widow, she had a poor, loose-hung, trailing little body, which no nourishment could plump or fortify. Her visage was habitually doleful, but contracted itself at moments into a grin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist. "My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay it's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights." "How's that?" "It's my poor sister, sir--my sister Liza, I mean--she's had one of her worst headaches--the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lasted more than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thing got." Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though it were that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obvious remedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question for a working woman who lived on a few shillings a week. "Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, adding carelessly, "if the means were provided." Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door and jamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was in a thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible. "There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to go when my 'usband could afford it."