“No,” said Mossrose.
“Twenty-five?”
“Can't,” said Mossrose.
“Hang it! will you take forty? There!”
“I vish I'd kep it,” said the Hebrew gentleman, with unfeigned regret. “Eglantine dressed it this very night.”
“For Countess Baldenstiern, the Swedish Hambassador's lady,” says Eglantine (his Hebrew partner was by no means a favourite with the ladies, and only superintended the accounts of the concern). “It's this very night at Devonshire 'Ouse, with four hostrich plumes, lappets, and trimmings. And now, Mr. Woolsey, I'll trouble you to apologise.”
Mr. Woolsey did not answer, but walked up to Mr. Eglantine, and snapped his fingers so close under the perfumer's nose that the latter started back and seized the bell-rope. Mossrose burst out laughing, and the tailor walked majestically from the shop, with both hands stuck between the lappets of his coat.
“My dear,” said he to Morgiana a short time afterwards, “you must not encourage that husband of yours in his extravagance, and sell the clothes off your poor back that he may feast and act the fine gentleman in prison.”
“It is his health, poor dear soul!” interposed Mrs. Walker: “his chest. Every farthing of the money goes to the doctors, poor fellow!”
“Well, now listen: I am a rich man” (it was a great fib, for Woolsey's income, as a junior partner of the firm, was but a small one); “I can very well afford to make him an allowance while he is in the Fleet, and have written to him to say so. But if you ever give him a penny, or sell a trinket belonging to you, upon my word and honour I will withdraw the allowance, and, though it would go to my heart, I'll never see you again. You wouldn't make me unhappy, would you?”