whiskers—uniting two of my young friends in matrimony,” said Miss Jenny, shaking her forefinger, “is quite another affair. If you don’t see those three at the altar in Bond Street, in a jiffy, my name’s Jack Robinson!”
With her expert little ways in sharp action, she had got a doll into whitey-brown paper orders, before the meal was over, and was displaying it for the edification of the Jewish mind, when a knock was heard at the street-door. Riah went to open it, and presently came back, ushering in, with the grave and courteous air that sat so well upon him, a gentleman.
The gentleman was a stranger to the dressmaker; but even in the moment of his casting his eyes upon her, there was something in his manner which brought to her remembrance Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.
“Pardon me,” said the gentleman. “You are the dolls’ dressmaker?”
“I am the dolls’ dressmaker, sir.”
“Lizzie Hexam’s friend?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Miss Jenny, instantly on the defensive. “And Lizzie Hexam’s friend.”
“Here is a note from her, entreating you to accede to the request of Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, the bearer. Mr. Riah chances to know that I am Mr. Mortimer Lightwood, and will tell you so.”
Riah bent his head in corroboration.
“Will you read the note?”
“It’s very short,” said Jenny, with a look of wonder, when she had read it.