“Is Mrs. Copperas within?” asked the broker.
“Yees, sir,” said the boy.
“Show this gentleman and myself up stairs,” resumed Brown.
“Yees,” reiterated the lackey.
Up a singularly narrow staircase, into a singularly diminutive drawing-room, Clarence and his guide were ushered. There, seated on a little chair by a little work-table, with one foot on a little stool and one hand on a little book, was a little—very little lady.
“This is the young gentleman,” said Mr. Brown; and Clarence bowed low, in token of the introduction.
The lady returned the salutation with an affected bend, and said, in a mincing and grotesquely subdued tone, “You are desirous, sir, of entering into the bosom of my family. We possess accommodations of a most elegant description; accustomed to the genteelest circles, enjoying the pure breezes of the Highgate hills, and presenting to any guest we may receive the attractions of a home rather than of a lodging, you will find our retreat no less eligible than unique. You are, I presume, sir, in some profession, some city avocation—or—or trade?”
“I have the misfortune,” said he, smiling, “to belong to no profession.”
The lady looked hard at the speaker, and then at the broker. With certain people to belong to no profession is to be of no respectability.
“The most unexceptionable references will be givenmand required,” resumed Mrs. Copperas.