"By the way, how is Mrs. Chaffen?" interrupted Mr. Strange, with scant ceremony, and no regard to the old gentleman's head. "I have not seen her lately." "She was here a day or two ago, sir; down in my kitchen. As to how she is, she's as strong as need be: which it's thanks to you for inquiring. _She_ never has nothing the matter with her." "Is she out nursing?" "Not now. She expects to be called out soon, and is waiting at home for it." "Where is her home?" "Down Foxglove Lane, sir, turning off by Mr. Sumnor's church. Bull, the stonemason, lives in the end house there, and she have lodged with 'em for years. Bull tells her in joke sometimes that some of 'em ought to be took ill, with such a nurse as her in the house. Which they never are, for it's as healthy a spot as any in Foxwood." Mr. Strange had a knack of politely putting an end to his landlady's gossip when he pleased, and of sending her away. He did so now: and the widow transferred herself and her attentions to Mr. Cattacomb's parlour. People must hold spring and autumn cleanings, or where would their carpets and curtains bel Mrs. Chaffen, though occupying but one humble room (with a choice piece of furniture in it that was called a "bureau" by day, and was a bed by night) was not exempt from the general sanitary obligations. Mrs. Bull considered that she instituted these periodical bouts of scrubbing oftener than there was occasion for: but Betsey Chaffen liked to take care of her furniture--which was her own--and was moreover a cleanly woman. On this self-same morning she was in the thick of it: her gown turned up about her waist, her hands and arms bare to the elbow, plunged into a bucket of soapsuds, herself on her knees, and the furniture all heaped together on the top of the shut-up bureau in the corner, when one of the young Bulls came in with the astounding news that a gentleman was asking for her. "Goodness bless me!" cried the poor woman, turning cold all over, "it can't be that I'm fetched out, can it, Sam?--and me just in the middle of all this mess!" "He said, was Mrs. Chaffen at home, and could he see her," replied Sam. "He's a waiting outside:" Mrs. Chaffen sat back on her heels, one hand resting on the bucket, the other grasping the wet scrubbing-brush, and her face the very picture of consternation as she stared at the boy. She had believed herself free for a full week to come. "Is it Mr. Henley himself, Sam?" "It ain't Mr. Henley at all," said Sam. "It's the gentleman what's staying at Mrs. Jinks's."