Each guest having taken a quaff of ale or spirits or what was called wine, with perhaps a mouthful of more solid sustenance, was then led down into the back-kitchen to view the coffin and the corpse.  I mention the coffin first, because in everyone’s view this was the main point of interest.  Could Mrs. Peckover have buried the old woman in an orange-crate, she would gladly have done so for the saving of expense; but with relatives and neighbours to consider, she drew a great deal of virtue out of necessity, and dealt so very handsomely with the undertaker, that this burial would be the talk of the Close for some weeks.  The coffin was inspected inside and out, was admired and appraised, Mrs. Peckover being at hand to check the estimates.  At the same time every most revolting detail of the dead woman’s last illness was related and discussed and mused over and exclaimed upon.  ‘A lovely corpse, considerin’ her years,’ was the general opinion.  Then all went upstairs again, and once more refreshed themselves.  The house smelt like a bar-room.

‘Everythink most respectable, I’m sure!’ remarked the female mourners to each other, as they crowded together in the parlour.

‘An’ so it had ought to be!’ exclaimed one, in an indignant tone, such as is reserved for the expression of offence among educated people, but among the poor—­the London poor, least original and least articulate beings within the confines of civilisation—­has also to do duty for friendly emphasis.  ’If Mrs. Peckover can’t afford to do things respectable, who can?’

And the speaker looked defiantly about her, as if daring contradiction.  But only approving murmurs replied.  Mrs. Peckover had, in fact, the reputation of being wealthy; she was always inheriting, always accumulating what her friends called ‘interess,’ never expending as other people needs must.  The lodgings she let enabled her to live rent-free and rate-free.  Clem’s earnings at an artificial-flower factory more than paid for that young lady’s board and clothing, and all other outlay was not worth mentioning as a deduction from the income created by her sundry investments.  Her husband—­ten years deceased—­had been a ‘moulder’; he earned on an average between three and four pounds a week, and was so prudently disposed that, for the last decade of his life, he made it a rule never to spend a farthing of his wages.  Mrs. Peckover at that time kept a small beer-shop in Rosoman Street—­small and unpretending in appearance, but through it there ran a beery Pactolus.  By selling the business shortly after her husband’s death, Mrs. Peckover realised a handsome capital.  She retired into private life, having a strong sense of personal dignity, and feeling it necessary to devote herself to the moral training of her only child.