to the sitter’s curves, it is comparatively a chair of state.  The room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom door.  Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are no hats or coats on them.  On the other side of the window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and brass pendulum.  Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery.

On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall.  An inspection of its stridulous surface shows that Mrs. Dudgeon is not alone.  A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it.  She is a wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin.  Her frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means scrupulously clean.  It hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of underclothing.

Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the sleepers.  Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a little.  Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once.

Mrs. Dudgeon (threateningly).  Well, why don’t you open the door?  (She sees that the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me!  Now this is—­ (shaking her) wake up, wake up:  do you hear?

The girl (sitting up).  What is it?

Mrs. Dudgeon.  Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his grave.

The girl (half asleep still).  I didn’t mean to.  I dropped off—­

Mrs. Dudgeon (cutting her short).  Oh yes, you’ve plenty of excuses, I daresay.  Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking recommences.) Why don’t you get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night for him! (She pushes her rudely off the sofa.) There:  I’ll open the door:  much good you are to wait up.  Go and mend that fire a bit.

The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on.  Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat.  He hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door.