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A young woman of about eight-and-twenty, in tailor-made costume, with unadorned hat of brown felt, and irreproachable umbrella; a young woman who walked faster than any one in Wattleborough, yet never looked hurried; who crossed a muddy street seemingly without a thought for her skirts, yet somehow was never splashed; who held up her head like one thoroughly at home in the world, and frequently smiled at her own thoughts. Those who did not know her asked who she was; those who had already made her acquaintance talked a good deal of the new mistress at the High School, by name Miss Rodney. In less than a week after her arrival in the town, her opinions were cited and discussed by Wattleborough ladies. She brought with her the air of a University; she knew a great number of important people; she had a quiet decision of speech and manner which was found very impressive in Wattleborough drawing-rooms. The headmistress spoke of her in high terms, and the incumbent of St. Luke’s, who knew her family, reported that she had always been remarkably clever.

A stranger in the town, Miss Rodney was recommended to the lodgings of Mrs. Ducker, a churchwarden’s widow; but there she remained only for a week or two, and it was understood that she left because the rooms ‘lacked character.’ Some persons understood this as an imputation on Mrs. Ducker, and were astonished; others, who caught a glimpse of Miss Rodney’s meaning, thought she must be ‘fanciful.’ Her final choice of an abode gave general surprise, for though the street was one of those which Wattleborough opinion classed as ‘respectable,’ the house itself, as Miss Rodney might have learnt from the incumbent of St. Luke’s, in whose parish it was situated, had objectionable features. Nothing grave could be alleged against Mrs. Turpin, who regularly attended the Sunday evening service; but her husband, a carpenter, spent far too much time at ‘The Swan With Two Necks’; and then there was a lodger, young Mr. Rawcliffe, concerning whom Wattleborough had for some time been too well informed. Of such comments upon her proceeding Miss Rodney made light; in the aspect of the rooms she found a certain ‘quaintness’ which decidedly pleased her. ‘And as for Mrs. Grundy,’ she added, ‘je m’en fiche? which certain ladies of culture declared to be a polite expression of contempt.

Miss Rodney never wasted time, and in matters of business had cultivated a notable brevity. Her interview with Mrs. Turpin, when she engaged the rooms, occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour; in that space of time she had sufficiently surveyed the house, had learnt all that seemed necessary as to its occupants, and had stated in the clearest possible way her present requirements.

‘As a matter of course,’ was her closing remark, ‘the rooms will be thoroughly cleaned before I come in. At present they are filthy.’

The landlady was too much astonished to reply; Miss Rodney’s tones and bearing had so impressed her that she was at a loss for her usual loquacity, and could only stammer respectfully broken answers to whatever was asked. Assuredly no one had ever dared to tell her that her lodgings were ‘filthy’–any ordinary person who had ventured upon such an insult would have been overwhelmed with clamorous retort. But Miss Rodney, with a pleasant smile and nod, went her way, and Mrs. Turpin stood at the open door gazing after her, bewildered ‘twixt satisfaction and resentment.

She was an easy-going, wool-witted creature, not ill-disposed, but sometimes mendacious and very indolent. Her life had always been what it was now–one of slatternly comfort and daylong gossip, for she came of a small tradesman’s family, and had married an artisan who was always in well-paid work. Her children were two daughters, who, at seventeen and fifteen, remained in the house with her doing little or nothing, though they were supposed to ‘wait upon the lodgers.’ For some months only two of the four rooms Mrs. Turpin was able to let had been occupied, one by ‘young Mr. Rawcliffe,’ always so called, though his age was nearly thirty, but, as was well known, he belonged to the ‘real gentry,’ and Mrs. Turpin held him in reverence on that account. No matter for his little weaknesses–of which evil tongues, said Mrs. Turpin, of course made the most. He might be irregular in payment; he might come home ‘at all hours,’ and make unnecessary noise in going upstairs; he might at times grumble when his chop was ill-cooked; and, to tell the truth, he might occasionally be ‘a little too free’ with the young ladies–that is to say, with Mabel and Lily Turpin; but all these things were forgiven him because he was ‘a real gentleman,’ and spent just as little time as he liked daily in a solicitor’s office.