This morning, when I arrived downstairs, the kitchen was all of a caddle. Children were bolting their breakfast, seated and afoot; were washing themselves and being washed; were getting ready and being got ready for school. Mrs Widger looked up from stitching the seat of a small boy's breeches in situ. "I've a-laid your breakfast in the front room."
Thither I went with a book and no uncertain feeling of disappointment.
BREAKFAST IN THE PARLOUR
The front room looks out upon Alexandra Square. It is, at once, parlour, lumber room, sail and rope store, portrait gallery of relatives and ships, and larder. It is a veritable museum of the household treasures not in constant use, and represents pretty accurately, I imagine, the extent to which Mrs Widger's house-pride is able to indulge itself. But I have had enough at Salisbury of eating my meals among best furniture and in the (printed) company of great minds. The noise in the kitchen sounded jolly. Now or never, I thought. So after breakfast, I returned to the kitchen and asked for what bad behaviour I was banished to the front room.
"Lor'! If yu don't mind this. On'y 'tis all up an' down here...."
3
I went yesterday to see my old landlady at Egremont Villas. She asked me where I was lodging.
"At Tony Widger's, in Alexandra Square."
"Why, that's in Under Town."
"Yes, in Under Town."