This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn’t each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don’t you go and do it?

‘As to their wanting recreations, ma’am,’ said Bitzer, ‘it’s stuff and nonsense. I don’t want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don’t like ’em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don’t they improve it, ma’am! It’s the first consideration of a rational creature, and it’s what they pretend to want.’

‘Pretend indeed!’ said Mrs Sparsit.

‘I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma’am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families,’ said Bitzer. ‘Why look at me, ma’am! I don’t want a wife and family. Why should they?’

‘Because they are improvident,’ said Mrs Sparsit.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ returned Bitzer, ‘that’s where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma’am, what would they do? They would say, ‘‘While my hat covers my family,’’ or ‘‘while my bonnet covers my family,’’ — as the case might be, ma’am — ‘‘I have only one to feed, and that’s the person I most like to feed.’’ ’

‘To be sure,’ assented Mrs Sparsit, eating muffin.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs Sparsit’s improving conversation. ‘Would you wish a little more hot water, ma’am, or is there anything else I could fetch you?’

‘Nothing just now, Bitzer.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I shouldn’t wish to disturb you at your meals, ma’am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it,’ said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; ‘but there’s a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma’am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That is his knock, ma’am, no doubt.’

He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, ‘Yes, ma’am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma’am?’

‘I don’t know who it can be,’ said Mrs Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens.

‘A stranger, ma’am, evidently.’

‘What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Sparsit, ‘but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer.’

Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs Sparsit’s magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped upstairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity.

‘If you please, ma’am, the gentleman would wish to see you,’ said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs Sparsit’s keyhole. So, Mrs Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features