The little three-legged stool would not have been exactly luxurious; but to be stood in the corner with my hands behind me by a person of the feminine gender called Smiley, was really too bad.

The worst of it was that if I made any further protest I might be smacked in addition, and that possibility I hardly dared risk.
So, rather to my own surprise, I found myself standing in the corner, with my hands at my back, scrutinising a blue and pink rose on the wall- paper, and wondering whether it would not be worth my while to write to the _Times_ about the whole business.

I could not help thinking that Mrs Smiley did not hurry herself on my account.

I was conscious of box after box being dragged to the front, emptied of its contents and put back, to be removed presently by a porter, who probably looked at me every time he came in, but, I am bound to say, received very little encouragement from my studiously averted head.
After nearly an hour I began to get tired, and the blood of the Joneses began to rise within me.

I was seriously meditating mutiny, or at least a definite explanation with Mrs Smiley, when at last she broke silence.
"Now, young gentleman, this way, please." And she led me to a small comfortable-looking apartment, which I surmised to be her particular sanctum.
"What's your name ?" "Jones," said I.
"Ah--you're the boy who's brought down a rubbishy speckled waistcoat and loud striped shirts--eh ?" "Well, yes," said I.
"Did your mother buy them for you, or did you buy them ?" "I did." "I can see your mother's a lady by the way she has everything else done.
You'll find your own trash just where you put it, in the bottom of your trunk.