As he nods towards a point of darkness behind Mr. Wegg, the latter, with a slight start, looks round for “that French gentleman,” whom he at length descries to be represented (in a very workmanlike manner) by his ribs only, standing on a shelf in another corner, like a piece of armour or a pair of stays.

“Oh!” says Mr. Wegg, with a sort of sense of being introduced; “I dare say you were all right enough in your own country, but I hope no objections will be taken to my saying that the Frenchman was never yet born as I should wish to match.”

At this moment the greasy door is violently pushed inward, and a boy follows it, who says, after having let it slam:

“Come for the stuffed canary.”

“It’s three and ninepence,” returns Venus; “have you got the money?”