“Once before—if you had your eyesight,” replied Miss Wren; the conditional clause in an undertone.
“When you were carrying on some games up at the top of the house. I remember. How’s your friend?”
“I have more friends than one, sir, I hope,” replied Miss Wren. “Which friend?”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Fledgeby, shutting up one eye, “any of your friends, all your friends. Are they pretty tolerable?”
Somewhat confounded, Miss Wren parried the pleasantry, and sat down in a corner behind the door, with her basket in her lap. By-and-by, she said, breaking a long and patient silence:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am used to find Mr. Riah at this time, and so I generally come at this time. I only want to buy my poor little two shillings’ worth of waste. Perhaps you’ll kindly let me have it, and I’ll trot off to my work.”
“ I let you have it?” said Fledgeby, turning his head towards her; for he had been sitting blinking at the light, and feeling his cheek. “Why, you don’t really suppose that I have anything to do with the place, or the business; do you?”
“Suppose?” exclaimed Miss Wren. “He said, that day, you were the master!”
“The old cock in black said? Riah said? Why, he’d say anything.”
“Well; but you said so too,” returned Miss Wren. “Or at least you took on like the master, and didn’t contradict him.”
“One of his dodges,” said Mr. Fledgeby, with a cool and contemptuous shrug. “He’s made of dodges. He said to me, ‘Come up to