On the Friday evening the Major called for Zachariah. He had not yet
returned, but his wife was at home. The tea-things were ready, the
kettle was on the hob, and she sat knitting at the window. Her
visitor knocked at the door; she rose, and he entered. This time he
was a little less formal, for after making his bow he shook her hand.
She, too, was not quite so stiff, and begged him to be seated.

"Upon my word, madam," he began, "if I were as well looked after as
Mr. Coleman, I doubt if I should be so anxious as he is to change the
existing order of things. You would think there is some excuse for
me if you were to see the misery and privation of my lodgings.
Nobody cares a straw, and as for dust and dirt, they would drive you
distracted."

Mrs. Zachariah smiled, and shifted one of her little white-stockinged
feet over the other. She had on the neatest of sandals, with black
ribbons, which crossed over the instep. It was one of Zachariah's
weak points, she considered, that he did not seem to care
sufficiently for cleanliness, and when he came in he would sometimes
put his black hand, before he had washed, on the white tea-cloth, or
on the back of a chair, and leave behind him a patch of printer's
ink. It was bad enough to be obliged always to wipe the door-
handles.

"I do my best; but as for dirt, you cannot be so badly off in the
Albany as we are in Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell is very disagreeable,
but we are obliged to live here."

"If Clerkenwell is so bad, all the more honour to you for your