“Allow me to observe, sir,” said Agricola, “that after knocking, you might have waited till the door was opened, before you entered. Pray, what is your business?”
“Pray excuse me, sir,” said the man, very politely, and speaking slowly, perhaps to prolong his stay in the room: “I beg a thousand pardons—I regret my intrusion—I am ashamed—”
“Well, you ought to be, sir,” said Agricola, with impatience, “what do you want?”
“Pray, sir, does not Miss Soliveau, a deformed needlewoman, live here?”
“No, sir; upstairs,” said Agricola.
“Really, sir,” cried the polite man, with low bows, “I am quite abroad at my blunder: I thought this was the room of that young person. I brought her proposals for work from a very respectable party.”
“It is very late, sir,” said Agricola, with surprise. “But that young person is as one of our family. Call to-morrow; you cannot see her to night; she is gone to bed.”
“Then, sir, I again beg you to excuse—”
“Enough, sir,” said Agricola, taking a step towards the door.
“I hope, madame and the young ladies, as well as this gent, will be assured that—”