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and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than usual; and he has, in his thirsty mind, his mellowed port-wine half a century old.

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr. Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields, when that high-priest of noble mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall, when he encounters, on the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.

“Is that Snagsby?”

“Yes sir. I hope you are well sir. I was just giving you up sir, and going home.”

“Aye? What is it? What do you want with me? ”

“Well sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head, in his deference towards his best customer. “I was wishful to say a word to you sir.”

“Can you say it here?”

“Perfectly sir.”

“Say it then.” The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the court-yard.

“It is relating,” says Mr. Snagsby, in a mysterious low voice: “it is relating—not to put too fine a point upon it—to the foreigner sir.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. “What foreigner?”

“The foreign female sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her manners and appearance that she was French anyways, certainly foreign. Her that was up-stairs sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the honor of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.”

“Oh! yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.”

“Indeed sir?” Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his hat. “I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it would be that.” Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating the name; but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.

“And what can you have to say, Snagsby,” demands Mr. Tulkinghorn, “about her?”

“Well sir,” returns the stationer, shading his communication with his hat, “it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is very great—at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure—but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hovering—I should be the last to make use of a strong expression, if I could avoid it, but hovering sir in the court—you know it is—now ain't it? I only put it to yourself sir.”

Mr. Snagsby having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.

“Why, what do you mean?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Just so sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby; “I was sure you would feel it yourself, and would excuse the reasonableness of my feelings when coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see, the