"No, sir: but would you like to see Mistress Vetch?"
I was minded to refuse, and thought of going on to Mr. Vetch's offices where I knew I should find him at this time of day. I felt a certain annoyance at Mr. Vetch marrying ('twas unreasonable, I admit), and wondered whether poor old Becky had been dismissed, or was dead. But while I stood hesitating, I heard the well-remembered voice from the interior of the house--"Tell the man the coffee is not fit to drink, and if I have any more of it I'll say goodby to Mr. Huggins and see if Mr. Martin can serve me better."
"What, Becky!" I cried; "d'you think I'm a grocer's boy after all?"
There was a scream, and my old friend came flying towards me, her cap (with lilac trimmings) shaken askew by her haste.
"Oh, my boy!" she cried, flinging her arms about me. "Drat the girl!
"How many times have I told you to ask visitors into the parlor!
"Oh, my dear, precious boy!"
"'Tis not her fault," I said, giving the good creature an answering hug; "I asked for Mistress Pennyquick."
"Which my name is Vetch, and has been for six months come Saturday. He would have it so, though I told him Vetch wasn't a name to my taste. But there! What was a poor lone widow to do? A lawyer have got such a tongue!"
"You look ten years younger, Becky," I said.