"I have read somewhere—in a book I dare say you mayn't have in your collection, Mr. Kitely—they call it the New Testament—"
There was not an atom of conscious humor in the tailor as he said this. He really thought Mr. Kitely might have conscientious scruples as to favoring the sale of the New Testament. Kitely smiled, but said nothing.
"I've read"—the tailor went on—"that God winked at some people's ignorance. I dare say he may wink at Mr. Potter's."
"Anyhow, I wouldn't like to be Mr. Potter," said the bookseller.
"No, nor I," returned Spelt. "But just as I let that poor creature, Dolman, cobble away in my ground-floor—though he has never paid me more than half his rent since ever he took it—"
"Is that the way of it? Whew!" said Mr. Kitely.
"About and about it," answered the tailor. "But that's not the point."
"What a fool you are then, Spelt, to—"
"Mr. Kitely," interposed the tailor with dignity, "do I pay your rent?"