a chair.”
The gentleman took a chair, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a melancholy frame of mind. Mr. Fledgeby eyed him aside, and seemed to relish his attitude.
“A fine day, sir,” remarked Fledgeby.
The little dried gentleman was so occupied with his own depressed reflections that he did not notice the remark until the sound of Mr. Fledgeby’s voice had died out of the countinghouse. Then he started, and said: “I beg your pardon, sir. I fear you spoke to me?”
“I said,” remarked Fledgeby, a little louder than before, “it was a fine day.”
“I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon. Yes.”
Again the little dried gentleman put his hand to his forehead, and again Mr. Fledgeby seemed to enjoy his doing it. When the gentleman changed his attitude with a sigh, Fledgeby spake with a grin.
“ Mr. Twemlow, I think?”
The dried gentleman seemed much surprised.
“Had the pleasure of dining with you at Lammle’s,” said Fledgeby. “Even have the honour of being a connection of yours. An unexpected sort of place this to meet in; but one never knows, when one gets into the City, what people one may knock up against. I hope you have your health, and are enjoying yourself.”
There might have been a touch of impertinence in the last words; on the other hand, it might have been but the native grace of Mr. Fledgeby’s manner. Mr. Fledgeby sat on a stool with a foot on the rail of another