‘Very,’ returned Mr. Britain. ‘It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t presume upon, on any account.’
‘No,’ retorted Clemency. ‘Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he fetched eight pound two; and that an’t bad, is it?’
‘It’s very good,’ said Ben.
‘I’m glad you’re pleased!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought you would be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em up. Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet from the printer’s. How nice it smells!’
‘What’s this?’ said Ben, looking over the document.
‘I don’t know,’ replied his wife. ‘I haven’t read a word of it.’
‘“To be sold by Auction,”’ read the host of the Nutmeg-Grater, ‘“unless previously disposed of by private contract.”’
‘They always put that,’ said Clemency.
‘Yes, but they don’t always put this,’ he returned. ‘Look here, “Mansion,” &c.—“offices,” &c., “shrubberies,” &c., “ring fence,” &c. “Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,” &c., “ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad”!’
‘Intending to continue to reside abroad!’ repeated Clemency.