From A London Child Of The 1870s, by M.V. Hughes

Londoners have no neighbors. During our fifteen years in the one house we never had the slightest acqaintance with our 'semi-detached', nor with the people round, although we knew several by sight and gave them nicknames. A very few became known to us through the vicar, the school-master, and the doctor...

Among the frequenters of the house was a young man named Arthur Collins. Where he came from, or by whom introduced, nobody seemed to know. He cannot have been a friend of the boys. He would look in at all hours and stay endlessly--too shy to go. He had a shock of black hair, a perpetual smile, and nothing whatever to say.

Invariably during his visit he held on his knees a paper parcel, which we all knew to be a present for one of us. Never summoning up courage to give it, he would throw it on the front-door mat as he left. You may think how pleasant this must have been. But we all knew that the present would be a cardboard tidy, or bookmark, or box, ornamented with green ribbon--all his own work.

The house was already littered with these gifts, so that we loathed the sight of them, and his mode of delivery involved a letter of thanks from the unlucky recipient.

He liked to join in any game that was afoot, so long as it was simple, such as dominoes or draughts, but was so good natured that he always let his opponent win. Not that he said so, but we were all aware of it, and could see him making mistakes on purpose.

To poor Arthur we owed our disgust with obtrusively unselfish prople, and our understanding of mother's oft-repeated maxim: 'Please yourself, your friends will like you the better.'