We had a meeting that evening of the Select Committee of the Mothers’-Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society.  The object of this excellent Charity is—­as all serious people know—­to rescue unredeemed fathers’ trousers from the pawnbroker, and to prevent their resumption, on the part of the irreclaimable parent, by abridging them immediately to suit the proportions of the innocent son.  I was a member, at that time, of the select committee; and I mention the Society here, because my precious and admirable friend, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, was associated with our work of moral and material usefulness.  I had expected to see him in the boardroom, on the Monday evening of which I am now writing, and had proposed to tell him, when we met, of dear Aunt Verinder’s arrival in London.  To my great disappointment he never appeared.  On my expressing a feeling of surprise at his absence, my sisters of the Committee all looked up together from their trousers (we had a great pressure of business that night), and asked in amazement, if I had not heard the news.  I acknowledged my ignorance, and was then told, for the first time, of an event which forms, so to speak, the starting-point of this narrative.  On the previous Friday, two gentlemen—­occupying widely-different positions in society—­had been the victims of an outrage which had startled all London.  One of the gentlemen was Mr. Septimus Luker, of Lambeth.  The other was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

Living in my present isolation, I have no means of introducing the newspaper-account of the outrage into my narrative.  I was also deprived, at the time, of the inestimable advantage of hearing the events related by the fervid eloquence of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.  All I can do is to state the facts as they were stated, on that Monday evening, to me; proceeding on the plan which I have been taught from infancy to adopt in folding up my clothes.  Everything shall be put neatly, and everything shall be put in its place.  These lines are written by a poor weak woman.  From a poor weak woman who will be cruel enough to expect more?

The date—­thanks to my dear parents, no dictionary that ever was written can be more particular than I am about dates—­was Friday, June 30th, 1848.

Early on that memorable day, our gifted Mr. Godfrey happened to be cashing a cheque at a banking-house in Lombard Street.  The name of the firm is accidentally blotted in my diary, and my sacred regard for truth forbids me to hazard a guess in a matter of this kind.  Fortunately, the name of the firm doesn’t matter.  What does matter is a circumstance that occurred when Mr. Godfrey had transacted his business.  On gaining the door, he encountered a gentleman—­a perfect stranger to him—­who was accidentally leaving the office exactly at the same time as himself.  A momentary contest of politeness ensued between them as to who should be the first to pass through the door of the bank.  The stranger insisted on making Mr. Godfrey precede him; Mr. Godfrey said a few civil words; they bowed, and parted in the street.