He took, folded, and put it in his pocket.
"I am obliged to you, Sir," he said, with a low bow, "but in taking it, it is 'my poverty, but not my will, consents.'"
"Shall my servant carry your portmanteau?"
"Thank you, no; it is not heavy. I can carry it myself."
"The phaeton is at your service, if you wish to drive to Cornpool."
"I will walk, Sir."
I held out my hand, but pretending not to notice the action he gave me another low bow and left the room. In less than twenty minutes I saw him walk, portmanteau in hand, down the front garden.
Thus ended my connection with this singular little man.