James Matthew Barrie

In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too briefly. The fairway to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will chuckle, and agree that the want of a bed tries hersore; she will keep you on the hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, withthat mouse-like movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. Youthought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo, a bed. There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain four rooms-kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a surprise; but it is fullof 'bits, ' every one of which has been paid ready money for, and gloated over andtended until it has become part of its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers mightcall them, though there is probably nothing in the place except the bed that wouldfetch half-a-crown. Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted to the lower half ofpersons passing overhead beyond the area stairs. Here at the window Mrs. Doweysometimes sits of a summer evening gazing, not sentimentally at a flower-potwhich contains one poor bulb, nor yearningly at some tiny speck of sky, but withunholy relish at holes in stockings, and the like, which are revealed to her from herpoint of vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that your finery awesthe street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and does) that your soles are in need of neatrepair. Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those whose view is thuslimited, she could swear to scores of the passers-by in a court of law. These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the tea-table, and wit isflowing free. As you can see by their everyday garments, and by their pails andmops (which are having a little tea-party by themselves in the corner), it is not agathering by invitations stretching away into yesterday, it is a purely informal affair;so much more attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately prearranged. You know how they come about, especially in war-time. Very likely Mrs. Dowey metMrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham quite casually in the street, and meant to do nomore than the time of day; then, naturally enough, the word camouflage wasmentioned, and they got heated, but in the end Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, inthe odd way in which one thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, andMrs. Dowey remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs. Mickleham hadstood treat last time; and soon they were all three descending the area stairs, followed cringingly by the Haggerty Woma

The scene is the blue and white room in the house of the Misses Susan and Phoebe Throssel in Quality Street; and in this little country town there is a satisfaction about living in Quality Street which even religion cannot give. Through the bowed window at the back we have a glimpse of the street. It is pleasantly broad and grass-grown, and is linked to the outer world by one demure shop, whose door rings a bell every time it opens and shuts. Thus by merely peeping, every one in Quality Street can know at once who has been buying a Whimsy cake, and usually why. This bell is the most familiar sound of Quality Street. Now and again ladies pass in their pattens, a maid perhaps protecting them with an umbrella, for flakes of snow are falling discreetly. Gentlemen in the street are an event; but, see, just as we raise the curtain, there goes the recruiting sergeant to remind us that we are in the period of the Napoleonic wars. If he were to look in at the window of the blue and white room all the ladies there assembled would draw themselves up; they know him for a rude fellow who smiles at the approach of maiden ladies and continues to smile after they have passed. However, he lowers his head to-day so that they shall not see him, his present design being converse with the Misses Throssel's maid. The room is one seldom profaned by the foot of man, and everything in it is white or blue. Miss Phoebe is not present, but here are Miss Susan, Miss Willoughby and her sister Miss Fanny, and Miss Henrietta Turnbull. Miss Susan and Miss Willoughby, alas, already wear caps; but all the four are dear ladies, so refined that we ought not to be discussing them without a more formal introduction. There seems no sufficient reason why we should choose Miss Phoebe as our heroine rather than any one of the others, except, perhaps, that we like her name best. But we gave her the name, so we must support our choice and say that she is slightly the nicest, unless, indeed, Miss Susan is nicer. Miss Fanny is reading aloud from a library book while the others sew or knit. They are making garments for our brave soldiers now far away fighting the Corsican Ogre.