It being so, here is Saturday evening come, and here is Mr. Venus come, and ringing at the Bower-gate.

Mr. Wegg opens the gate, descries a sort of brown paper truncheon under Mr. Venus’s arm, and remarks, in a dry tone: “Oh! I thought perhaps you might have come in a cab.”

“No, Mr. Wegg,” replies Venus. “I am not above a parcel.”

“Above a parcel! No!” says Wegg, with some dissatisfaction. But does not openly growl, “a certain sort of parcel might be above you.”

“Here is your purchase, Mr. Wegg,” says Venus, politely handing it over, “and I am glad to restore it to the source from whence it⁠—flowed.”