He had fallen from a piece of scaffolding into Piccadilly Circus, and was unable to afford any further assistance to the improvements demanded by the Pavilion Music Hall.

Mrs.Slater, a stout, amiable woman, who had never been one to worry; Henry Slater, Senior, had been a bad husband, "what with women and the drink"-- she had no intention of lamenting him now that he was dead; she had done for ever with men, and devoted the whole of her time and energy to providing bread and butter for herself and her son.
She had been Lady Cathcart's caretaker for a year and a half, and had given every satisfaction.

When the old lady came up to London Mrs.
Slater went down to Essex and defended the country place from suffragettes and burglars.

"I shouldn't care for it," said a lady friend, "all alone in the country with no cheerful noises nor human beings." "Doesn't frighten me, I give you my word, Mrs.East," said Mrs.Slater; "not that I don't prefer the town, mind you." It was, on the whole, a pleasant life, that carried with it a certain dignity.

Nobody who had seen old Lady Cathcart drive in her open carriage, with her black bonnet, her coachman, and her fine, straight back, could deny that she was one of Our Oldest and Best--none of your mushroom families come from Lord knows where--it was a position of trust, and as such Mrs.Slater considered it.