At length the door stood open, and Mr. Fledgeby’s retreating drapery plunged into bed again. Following it at a respectful distance, Riah passed into the bedchamber, where a fire had been sometime lighted, and was burning briskly.

“Why, what time of night do you mean to call it?” inquired Fledgeby, turning away beneath the clothes, and presenting a comfortable rampart of shoulder to the chilled figure of the old man.

“Sir, it is full half-past ten in the morning.”

“The deuce it is! Then it must be precious foggy?”

“Very foggy, sir.”

“And raw, then?”

“Chill and bitter,” said Riah, drawing out a handkerchief, and wiping the moisture from his beard and long grey hair as he stood on the verge of the rug, with his eyes on the acceptable fire.