The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only very untidy but very dirty.  We were obliged to take notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs:  I think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.

But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking though by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of her pen and staring at us.  I suppose nobody ever was in such a state of ink.  And from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right place.

“You find me, my dears,” said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two great office candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room taste strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), “you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse.  The African project at present employs my whole time.  It involves me in correspondence with public bodies and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country.  I am happy to say it is advancing.  We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger.”

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very gratifying.

“It is gratifying,” said Mrs. Jellyby.  “It involves the devotion of all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day.  Do you know, Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that you never turned your thoughts to Africa.”

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that I was quite at a loss how to receive it.  I hinted that the climate—­

“The finest climate in the world!” said Mrs. Jellyby.

“Indeed, ma’am?”

“Certainly.  With precaution,” said Mrs. Jellyby.  “You may go into
Holborn, without precaution, and be run over.  You may go into
Holborn, with precaution, and never be run over.  Just so with
Africa.”

I said, “No doubt.”  I meant as to Holborn.

“If you would like,” said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers towards us, “to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I finish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis—­”

The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.