“So I had a mind,” pursued Fledgeby, “to come and have a talk with you about our dodging friend, the child of Israel.”
“So he gave you my address; did he?” asked Miss Wren.
“I got it out of him,” said Fledgeby, with a stammer.
“You seem to see a good deal of him,” remarked Miss Wren, with shrewd distrust. “A good deal of him you seem to see, considering.”
“Yes, I do,” said Fledgeby. “Considering.”
“Haven’t you,” inquired the dressmaker, bending over the doll on which her art was being exercised, “done interceding with him yet?”
“No,” said Fledgeby, shaking his head.
“La! Been interceding with him all this time, and sticking to him still?” said Miss Wren, busy with her work.
“Sticking to him is the word,” said Fledgeby.
Miss Wren pursued her occupation with a concentrated air, and asked, after an interval of silent industry:
“Are you in the army?”
“Not exactly,” said Fledgeby, rather flattered by the question.
“Navy?” asked Miss Wren.
“N—no,” said Fledgeby. He qualified these two negatives, as if he were not absolutely in either service, but was almost in both.
“What are you then?” demanded Miss Wren.
“I am a gentleman, I am,” said Fledgeby.