Refugiated in a suburban lodging, verging on that truly English appellation, 'the shabby genteel,' he breakfasted at nine, and made his exit at ten, exactly, leaving his landlady in considerable doubt whether he was a moderate annuitant, a half-pay officer, a junior in a banking-house, or an attorney's clerk.
While absent on one of these morning excursions, his laundress called with his clothes. 'This makes five-and-thirty shillings as how Mr. Mitford owes me.'
'And as how,' says the landlady, peering from the top of the stairs, 'he owes me for five weeks rent.'
'Strange he doesn't pay!' echoed the woman of suds.
That morning Mitford's evil star predominated. His tailor, his wine-merchant, and his butcher, presented themselves together.
'We wants our money!' cries the trio in a breath.
On such occasions landladies are always curious. Ours adjusted her hair, and asked them into her parlor.
'How much does he owe you?' asked she of the man of port and champagne.
'Two hundred and eighty-six pounds, not to mention odd shillings and pence.'