"Pretty well, Alice, thank you. It is like your kind heart to ask. Pretty well. Mine is a well-known establishment. In Mare Street, Hackney. I am, at least, respectable—which is more than some can say. All I want," he stooped and whispered, "is the introduction of more capital—more capital."
"We cannot talk about that now, Cousin Charles." Mrs. Haveril pushed him gently aside; but he took up a position at her right hand, and whispered as each came up in turn.
The next was a man who most certainly, to judge by his appearance, was run down pretty low. He was dressed in seedy black, his boots down at heel, his tall hat limp.
He stepped forward, with an affectation of a laugh. "I am your cousin Alfred, Alice. Alf, you know." She did not remember; but she offered him her hand. "I had hoped to find you alone. I have much to tell you."
"A bankrupt, Alice," whispered Charles. "Actually a bankrupt! And in this company!"
"If I am," said Fortune's battered plaything, "you ought to be, too, if everybody had his rights."
Cousin Charles made no reply to this charge. Do any of us get our deserts? The bankrupt stepped aside.
Then a pair of ladies, old and young, stepped forward with a pleasing smile.
"Cousin Alice," said the elder, "I am Sophy. This is my daughter. She teaches in a Board school, and is a credit to the family, as much as if she had a place of business in Mare Street, I'm sure."
"Pew-opener of St. Alphege, Hoxton," whispered Cousin Charles.