“We are pretty confident, though,” said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. “We had a little tea-party here, last night⁠—five-and-forty women, my dear sir⁠—and gave every one of ’em a green parasol when she went away.”

“A parasol!” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and sixpence apiece. All women like finery⁠—extraordinary the effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers⁠—beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a dozen green parasols.”

Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only checked by the entrance of a third party.