“Not at all, my dear,” says Mr Snagsby.

Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bed-room window, comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular ghost, and, falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that Mr and Mrs Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is admonished by Mrs Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order) by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to announce “Mr and Mrs Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay whatsername!” and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.

Mr Chadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr Chadband moves softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were inconvenient to him, and he wanted to grovel; is very much in a perspiration about the head; and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them.

“My friends,” says Mr Chadband, “peace be on this house! On the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is peace? Is it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh, yes! Therefore, my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours.”

In consequence of Mrs Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr Snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say Amen, which is well received.

“Now, my friends,” proceeds Mr Chadband, “since I am upon this theme—”

Guster presents herself. Mrs Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice, and without removing her eyes from Chadband, says, with dreadful distinctness, “Go away!”

“Now, my friends,” says Chadband, “since I am upon this theme, and in my lowly path improving it—”

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur “one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two.” The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, “Go away!”

“Now, my friends,” says Mr Chadband, “we will inquire in a spirit of love—”

Still Guster reiterates “one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two.”

Mr Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be persecuted, and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile, says, “Let us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!”

“One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for,” says Guster, breathless.

“For?” returns Mrs Chadband. “For his fare!”

Guster replied that “he insistes on one and eightpence, or on summonsizzing the party.” Mrs Snagsby and Mrs Chadband are proceeding to grow shrill in indignation, when Mr Chadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand.

“My friends,” says he, “I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. It is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought not to murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!”