“Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual equanimity. “I will give you no further trouble about this little wager.”
“You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present placed?” says mademoiselle.
“Certainly, certainly!”
“And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.”
“A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.”
“It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.”
“Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.”
“Good night.”
Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not without gallantry.
“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.
“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an’t a doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on. The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t say it wasn’t done!”