"No occasion. I'll toddle up, my tulip. He's a relation o' mine, don't you see the likeness atween us?—We was considered the handsomest pair 'o men as was in London at one time, and it sticks to us now, I can tell you."
"If you wish, sir, to go up, instead of having Mr. Smith called down, of course, sir, you can, as you are an old friend. Allow me to light you, sir."
"Not the least occasion. Only tell me where it isn't, and I'll find out where it is, old chap."
"It's the front attic."
"All's right. Don't be sich a hass as to be flaring away arter me, with that ere double dip, I can find my way in worserer places than this here. All's right—easy does it."
To the surprise of the shoemaker, his mysterious visitor opened the little door at the back of the shop, which led to the staircase, and in a moment disappeared up them.
"Upon my life, this Mr. Smith," thought the shoemaker, "seems to have some very strange connexions. He told me he knew nobody in London, and then here comes one of the ugliest fellows, I think, I ever saw in all my life, and claims acquaintance with him. What ought I to do?—Ought I to tell Mrs. W. of it?"
At this moment Mrs. W. made her appearance from the mercer's, with the ribbon that had tickled her feminine fancy—all smiles and sweetness. The heart of the shoemaker died within him, for well he knew what visitation he was likely to come in for, if anything connected with the lodger turned out wrong.
"A-hem! a-hem! Well, my dear, have you got the ribbon?"
"Oh yes, to be sure, and a love it is—"