Mrs Gross nodded, and retied the ribbon which confined her husband’s locks.
“Where is it, then?” cried Matt.
“Where is it?” repeated Mrs Gross. “Why, if it ain’t here, in this heap, it’s everywheres. It’s sold, and burnt, and wrapped round ’bacca, and butter, and all sorts.”
“Hadn’t we better go, Matt?” whispered Septimus, dreamily washing his hands together after his dry custom.
“S’pose we had,” muttered Matt. “Just, too, sir, as I’d made so sure as it was all coming right, and for the second time, too. Never mind, sir, it’ll all come right yet. Third time never fails. What do you say to hunting up the Miss Thingumy at Finsbury, and hearing what she’s got to say?—plenty, depend upon it. News, perhaps, and it can’t do no harm.”
But Septimus Hardon was in a weary, absent fit, and went away muttering homewards, as, worn-out and weak, Matt sat down upon the waste-paper ruins of the palace he had built in his own mind, and grimly listened to the congratulations of his friends upon his return.