"No, certainly not. We're lucky people in our latter days—good night."
"You can't stop, then?" asked Wesden.
"Not just now. Don't keep the boy down here, please—he'll stand and talk, forgetting that he's in the way to-night, unless you give him a hint to the contrary. Out of business, he's a trifle inconsiderate, unless you plainly tell him he's not wanted. Good night—I shall see Harriet in the morning."
"Yes—good night."
Mr. Hinchford retires again, and in a few minutes afterwards, before there is further time to dilate upon the danger of railway travelling, and the uncertainty of human hopes, the long-expected cab dashes up to the door. There is a bustle in Great Suffolk Street; the cabman brings in the boxes amidst a little knot of loungers, who have evidently never seen a box before, or a cab, or a young lady emerge therefrom assisted by a tall young man, or listened to an animated dispute about a cab-fare, which comes in by way of sequence whilst the young lady is kissing everybody in turn in the parlour.
"My fare's eighteenpence, guv'nor."
"Not one shilling, legally," affirmed the young man.
"I never did it for a shilling afore—I ain't a going now—I'll take a summons out first."
"Take it."
"You won't stand another sixpence, guv'nor?"