“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.
“Mother thought perhaps you’d honour her by taking a cup of tea this warm afternoon, sir,” said Mrs. Armstrong, when Theodore had seated himself opposite the invalid, “and then you can have your little talk over old times while I look after Armstrong’s supper. He’ll eat any bit I choose to give him for his dinner, and there’s days he don’t get no dinner at all, but he always looks for something tasty for supper, don’t he, mother?”
Mrs. Dugget acknowledged this trait in her son-in-law’s character, and Theodore having graciously accepted her hospitality, Mrs. Armstrong poured out the tea, and waited upon the distinguished guest, and, having done this, withdrew to her domestic duties. She was visible in front of the window five minutes afterwards, setting out with a basket over her arm, evidently in quest of the “something tasty” that was needful to her husband’s well-being.
“Your daughter tells me that you remember my cousin, Lord Cheriton, when he was Mr. Dalbrook,” said Theodore, when he and the old woman were alone together, except for the presence of a very familiar black cat, which pushed its chilly nose into Theodore’s hand, and rubbed its sleek fur against Theodore’s legs, with an air of slavish adulation.
“It isn’t everybody that Tom takes to,” said Mrs. Dugget, touched by her favourite’s conduct. “He’s a rare judge of character, is Tom. I’ve had him from a kitten, and his mother before him. Yes, sir, I ought to remember his lordship, seeing that I waited upon him for over eleven years; and a quiet gentleman he was to attend upon, giving next to no trouble, and never using bad language, or coming home the worse for drink, as I’ve known a gentleman behave in that very set.”