the top of the house, sir, and I’ll show you a handsome girl. But I shall call you the master.’ So I went up to the top of the house and he showed me the handsome girl (very well worth looking at she was), and I was called the master. I don’t know why. I dare say he don’t. He loves a dodge for its own sake; being,” added Mr. Fledgeby, after casting about for an expressive phrase, “the dodgerest of all the dodgers.”
“Oh my head!” cried the dolls’ dressmaker, holding it with both her hands, as if it were cracking. “You can’t mean what you say.”
“I can, my little woman,” retorted Fledgeby, “and I do, I assure you.”
This repudiation was not only an act of deliberate policy on Fledgeby’s part, in case of his being surprised by any other caller, but was also a retort upon Miss Wren for her over-sharpness, and a pleasant instance of his humour as regarded the old Jew. “He has got a bad name as an old Jew, and he is paid for the use of it, and I’ll have my money’s worth out of him.” This was Fledgeby’s habitual reflection in the way of business, and it was sharpened just now by the old man’s presuming to have a secret from him: though of the secret itself, as annoying somebody else whom he disliked, he by no means disapproved.
Miss Wren with a fallen countenance sat behind the door looking thoughtfully at the ground, and the long and patient silence had again set in for some time, when the expression of Mr. Fledgeby’s face betokened that through the upper portion of the door, which was of glass, he saw someone faltering on the brink of the countinghouse. Presently there was a rustle and a tap, and then some more rustling and another tap. Fledgeby taking no notice, the door was at length softly opened, and the dried face of a mild little elderly gentleman looked in.
“ Mr. Riah?” said this visitor, very politely.
“I am waiting for him, sir,” returned Mr. Fledgeby. “He went out and left me here. I expect him back every minute. Perhaps you had better take