THE TAILOR'S SISTER'S TOMBSTONE 



In another minute I was shaking hands with the 

 tailor's sister. 



In appearance she was as spotlessly clean as her 

 muslin curtains. She was a tiny woman of about 

 forty-five, very quick in her movements, with a little 

 round red face and very bright blue eyes. She wore, 

 in my honour, a black silk dress, and a black silk apron 

 and a large cornelian brooch at her neck. 



" Pray step inside, sir," she said throwing open the 

 door of the parlour. 



When I was seated at tea with these people I kept 

 wondering where they had learnt the refinement and 

 taste everywhere exhibited. For one thing the few 

 family possessions were good, and there was no tawdry 

 rubbish. A grandfather clock, its case shining with 

 polishing, ticked comfortably in one corner of the 

 room. An old-fashioned sofa filled the window space. 

 We sat upon Windsor chairs with our feet on a rag 

 carpet. Most of the household gods were over or upon 

 the mantelpiece, most prominent among which was a 

 really fine landscape, hung in the centre. I inquired 

 whose work this might be. 



One had only to look in the direction of any object 

 to get its history from the tailor. 



" I bought that, sir," he said, when I was looking at 

 the picture, " of a man near Norwich. It cost me half 

 a crown." 



" Three shillings," said the sister. Then to me, 

 " He takes a sixpence off, now and again, sir, because 

 he's jealous of my bargains ; aren't you, Tom ? " 



Tom smiled at her and winked at me. " She will 

 have her bit of fun," he said. 



" But it's a fine picture," said I. 



" Proud to have you say so," he answered ; " I like 

 it, and the man didn't seem to care about it. He was 



47 



