Mrs. Sparsit’s tea was just set for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of homage.

“Thank you, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“Thank you , ma’am,” returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty.

“All is shut up, Bitzer?” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“All is shut up, ma’am.”