‘I shall now about catch him at Mr. Halway’s,’ said the man, and went away as hastily as he had come.

Edward in the meantime had reached the auction-room.  He found some difficulty, on account of the inertness of those whose only inducement to an action is a mere wish from another, in getting the information he stood in need of, but it was at last accorded him.  The auctioneer’s book gave the name of Mrs. Higgins, 3 Canley Passage, as the purchaser of the lot which had included Mrs. Manston’s workbox.

Thither Edward went, followed by the man.  Four bell pulls, one above the other like waistcoat-buttons, appeared on the door-post.  Edward seized the first he came to.

‘Who did you woant?’ said a thin voice from somewhere.

Edward looked above and around him; nobody was visible.

‘Who did you woant?’ said the thin voice again.

He found now that the sound proceeded from below the grating covering the basement window.  He dropped his glance through the bars, and saw a child’s white face.

‘Who did you woant?’ said the voice the third time, with precisely the same languid inflection.

‘Mrs. Higgins,’ said Edward.

‘Third bell up,’ said the face, and disappeared.

He pulled the third bell from the bottom, and was admitted by another child, the daughter of the woman he was in search of.  He gave the little thing sixpence, and asked for her mamma.  The child led him upstairs.

Mrs. Higgins was the wife of a carpenter who from want of employment one winter had decided to marry.  Afterwards they both took to drink, and sank into desperate circumstances.  A few chairs and a table were the chief articles of furniture in the third-floor back room which they occupied.  A roll of baby-linen lay on the floor; beside it a pap-clogged spoon and an overturned tin pap-cup.  Against the wall a Dutch clock was fixed out of level, and ticked wildly in longs and shorts, its entrails hanging down beneath its white face and wiry hands, like the faeces of a Harpy (’foedissima ventris proluvies, uncaeque manus, et pallida semper ora’).  A baby was crying against every chair-leg, the whole family of six or seven being small enough to be covered by a washing-tub.  Mrs. Higgins sat helpless, clothed in a dress which had hooks and eyes in plenty, but never one opposite the other, thereby rendering the dress almost useless as a screen to the bosom.  No workbox was visible anywhere.

It was a depressing picture of married life among the very poor of a city.  Only for one short hour in the whole twenty-four did husband and wife taste genuine happiness.  It was in the evening, when, after the sale of some necessary article of furniture, they were under the influence of a quartern of gin.

Of all the ingenious and cruel satires that from the beginning till now have been stuck like knives into womankind, surely there is not one so lacerating to them, and to us who love them, as the trite old fact, that the most wretched of men can, in the twinkling of an eye, find a wife ready to be more wretched still for the sake of his company.