"Yes—oh—I see—certainly—to be sure—with pleasure—how is Mr. Gammon?—uncommon kind of him—very humble respects to him—take care to answer it," stammered Titmouse, in a breath, hardly knowing whether he were standing on his head or his heels, and not quite certain where he was.
"Good-evening, sir," replied the stranger, evidently a little surprised at Titmouse's manner, and withdrew. Titmouse shut his door. With prodigious trepidation of hand and flutter of spirits, he opened the letter—an enclosure meeting his eyes in the shape of a bank-note.
"Oh Lord!" he murmured, turning white as the sheet of paper he held. Then the letter dropped from his hand, and he stood as if stupefied for some moments; but presently rapture darted through him; a five-pound bank-note was in his hand, and it had been enclosed in the following letter:—
"35, Thavies' Inn, 29th July 18—.
"My dear Mr. Titmouse,
"Your last note addressed to our firm, has given me the greatest pain, and I hasten, on my return from the country, to forward you the enclosed trifle, out of my own personal resources—and I sincerely hope it will be of temporary service to you. May I beg the favor of your company on Sunday evening next, at seven o'clock, to take a glass of wine with me? I shall be quite alone and disengaged, and may have it in my power to make you some important communications, concerning matters in which, I assure you, I feel a very deep interest on your account. Begging the favor of an early answer to-morrow morning, I trust you will believe me, ever, my dear sir, your most faithful humble servant,
"Oily Gammon.
"Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq."
The first balmy drop of the long-expected golden shower had at length fallen upon the panting Titmouse. How polite—nay, how affectionate and respectful—was the note of Mr. Gammon! and, for the first time in his life, he saw himself addressed
"Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire."