On a certain day, Miss Wren was alone at her work, with the house-door set open for coolness, and was trolling in a small sweet voice a mournful little song which might have been the song of the doll she was dressing, bemoaning the brittleness and meltability of wax, when whom should she descry standing on the pavement, looking in at her, but Mr. Fledgeby.
“I thought it was you?” said Fledgeby, coming up the two steps.
“Did you?” Miss Wren retorted. “And I thought it was you, young man. Quite a coincidence. You’re not mistaken, and I’m not mistaken. How clever we are!”
“Well, and how are you?” said Fledgeby.
“I am pretty much as usual, sir,” replied Miss Wren. “A very unfortunate parent, worried out of my life and senses by a very bad child.”
Fledgeby’s small eyes opened so wide that they might have passed for ordinary-sized eyes, as he stared about him for the very young person whom he supposed to be in question.
“But you’re not a parent,” said Miss Wren, “and consequently it’s of no use talking to you upon a family subject.—To what am I to attribute the honour and favour?”
“To a wish to improve your acquaintance,” Mr. Fledgeby replied.
Miss Wren, stopping to bite her thread, looked at him very knowingly.
“We never meet now,” said Fledgeby; “do we?”
“No,” said Miss Wren, chopping off the word.