This someone was the dolls’ dressmaker, with a little basket on her arm, and her crutch stick in her hand. Her keen eyes had espied Mr. Fledgeby before Mr. Fledgeby had espied her, and he was paralysed in his purpose of shutting her out, not so much by her approaching the door, as by her favouring him with a shower of nods, the instant he saw her. This advantage she improved by hobbling up the steps with such despatch that before Mr. Fledgeby could take measures for her finding nobody at home, she was face to face with him in the countinghouse.
“Hope I see you well, sir,” said Miss Wren. “Mr. Riah in?”
Fledgeby had dropped into a chair, in the attitude of one waiting wearily. “I suppose he will be back soon,” he replied; “he has cut out and left me expecting him back, in an odd way. Haven’t I seen you before?”
“Once before—if you had your eyesight,” replied Miss Wren; the conditional clause in an undertone.
“When you were carrying on some games up at the top of the house. I remember. How’s your friend?”
“I have more friends than one, sir, I hope,” replied Miss Wren. “Which friend?”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Fledgeby, shutting up one eye, “any of your friends, all your friends. Are they pretty tolerable?”
Somewhat confounded, Miss Wren parried the pleasantry, and sat down in a corner behind the door, with her basket in her lap. By-and-by, she said, breaking a long and patient silence:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am used to find Mr. Riah at this time, and so I generally come at this time. I only want to buy my poor little two shillings’ worth of waste. Perhaps you’ll kindly let me have it, and I’ll trot off to my work.”
“I let you have it?” said Fledgeby, turning his head towards her; for he had been sitting blinking at the light, and feeling his cheek. “Why, you don’t really suppose that I have anything to do with the place, or the business; do you?”
“Suppose?” exclaimed Miss Wren. “He said, that day, you were the master!”
“The old cock in black said? Riah said? Why, he’d say anything.”
“Well; but you said so too,” returned Miss Wren. “Or at least you took on like the master, and didn’t contradict him.”
“One of his dodges,” said Mr. Fledgeby, with a cool and contemptuous shrug. “He’s made of dodges. He said to me, ‘Come up to the top of the house, sir, and I’ll show you a handsome girl. But I shall call you the master.’ So I went up to the top of the house and he showed me the handsome girl (very well worth looking at she was), and I was called the master. I don’t know why. I dare say he don’t. He loves a dodge for its own sake; being,” added Mr. Fledgeby, after casting about for an expressive phrase, “the dodgerest of all the dodgers.”
“Oh my head!” cried the dolls’ dressmaker, holding it with both her hands, as if it were cracking. “You can’t mean what you say.”
“I can, my little woman,” retorted Fledgeby, “and I do, I assure you.”
This repudiation was not only an act of deliberate policy on Fledgeby’s part, in case of his being surprised by any other caller, but was also a retort upon Miss Wren for her over-sharpness, and a pleasant instance of his humour as regarded the old Jew. “He has got a bad name as an old Jew, and he is paid for the use of it, and I’ll have my money’s worth out of him.” This was Fledgeby’s habitual reflection in the way of business, and it was sharpened just now by the old man’s presuming to have a secret from him: though of the secret itself, as annoying somebody else whom he disliked, he by no means disapproved.
Miss Wren with a fallen countenance sat behind the door looking thoughtfully at the ground, and the long and patient silence had again set in for some time, when the expression of Mr. Fledgeby’s face betokened that through the upper portion of the door, which was of glass, he saw someone faltering on the brink of the countinghouse. Presently there was a rustle and a tap, and then some more rustling and another tap. Fledgeby taking no notice, the door was at length softly opened, and the dried face of a mild little elderly gentleman looked in.
“Mr. Riah?” said this visitor, very politely.
“I am waiting for him, sir,” returned Mr. Fledgeby. “He went out and left me here. I expect him back every minute. Perhaps you had better take a chair.”
The gentleman took a chair, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a melancholy frame of mind. Mr. Fledgeby eyed him aside, and seemed to relish his attitude.
“A fine day, sir,” remarked Fledgeby.
The little dried gentleman was so occupied with his own depressed reflections that he did not notice the remark until the sound of Mr. Fledgeby’s voice had died out of the countinghouse. Then he started, and said: “I beg your pardon, sir. I fear you spoke to me?”
“I said,” remarked Fledgeby, a little louder than before, “it was a fine day.”
“I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon. Yes.”
Again the little dried gentleman put his hand to his forehead, and again Mr. Fledgeby seemed to enjoy his doing it. When the gentleman changed his attitude with a sigh, Fledgeby spake with a grin.
“Mr. Twemlow, I think?”
The dried gentleman seemed much surprised.
“Had the pleasure of dining with you at Lammle’s,” said Fledgeby. “Even
