ice that made Mr.
Eglantine start. "Vy, vat an old fat fool you are, Eglantine, to give up
our just debts because a voman comes snivelling and crying to you--and
such a voman, too!" exclaimed Mr. Mossrose, for his was the voice.

"Such a woman, sir?" cried the senior partner.

"Yes; such a woman--vy, didn't she jilt you herself?--hasn't she been
trying the same game with Baroski; and are you so green as to give up
a hundred and fifty pounds because she takes a fancy to come vimpering
here? I won't, I can tell you. The money's as much mine as it is yours,
and I'll have it or keep Walker's body, that's what I will."

At the presence of his partner, the timid good genius of Eglantine,
which had prompted him to mercy and kindness, at once outspread its
frightened wings and flew away.

"You see how it is, Mrs. W.," said he, looking down; "it's an affair
of business--in all these here affairs of business Mr. Mossrose is the
managing man; ain't you, Mr. Mossrose?"

"A pretty business it would be if I wasn't," replied Mossrose, doggedly.
"Come, ma'am," says he, "I'll tell you vat I do: I take fifty per shent;
not a farthing less--give me that, and out your husband goes."

"Oh, sir, Howard will pay you in a week."

"Vell, den, let him stop at my uncle Bendigo's for a week, and come out
den--he's very comfortable there," said Shylock with a grin. "Hadn't
you better go to the shop, Mr. Eglantine," continued he, "and look after
your business? Mrs. Walker can't want you to listen to her all day."

Eglantine was glad of the excuse, and slunk out of the studio; not into
the shop, but into his parlour; where he drank off a great glass of
maraschino, and sat blushing and exceedingly agitated, until Mossrose
came to tell him that Mrs. W. was gone, and wouldn't trouble him any
more. But although he drank several more glasses of maraschino, and went
to the play that night, and to the Cider-cellars afterwards, neither
the liquor, nor the play, nor the delightful comic songs at the cellars,
could drive Mrs. Walker out of his head, and the memory of old times,
and the image of her pale weeping face.

Morgiana tottered out of the shop, scarcely heeding the voice of Mr.
Mossrose, who said, "I'll take forty per shent" (and went back to his
duty cursing himself for a soft-hearted fool for giving up so much of
his rights to a puling woman). Morgiana, I say, tottered out of the
shop, and went up Conduit Street, weeping, weeping with all he