“It is so plain a case,” Mrs. Lammle goes on, “as between me (from the first relying on your honor) and you, that I will not waste another word upon it.” She looks steadily at Mr. Twemlow, until, with a shrug, he makes her a little one-sided bow, as though saying “Yes, I think you have a right to rely upon me,” and then she moistens her lips, and shows a sense of relief.

“I trust I have kept the promise I made through your servant, that I would detain you a very few minutes. I need trouble you no longer, Mr. Twemlow.”

“Stay!” says Twemlow, rising as she rises. “Pardon me a moment. I should never have sought you out, madam, to say what I am going to say, but since you have sought me out and are here, I will throw it off my mind. Was it quite consistent, in candour, with our taking that resolution against Mr. Fledgeby, that you should afterwards address Mr. Fledgeby as your dear and confidential friend, and entreat a favour of Mr. Fledgeby? Always supposing that you did; I assert no knowledge of my own on the subject; it has been represented to me that you did.”

“Then he told you?” retorts Mrs. Lammle, who again has saved her eyes while listening, and uses them with strong effect while speaking.

“Yes.”

“It is strange that he should have told you the truth,” says Mrs. Lammle, seriously pondering. “Pray where did a circumstance so very extraordinary happen?”

Twemlow hesitates. He is shorter than the lady as well as weaker, and, as she stands above him with her hardened manner and her well-used eyes, he finds himself at such a disadvantage that he would like to be of the opposite sex.

“May I ask where it happened, Mr. Twemlow? In strict confidence?”

“I must confess,” says the mild little gentleman, coming to his answer by degrees, “that I felt some compunctions when Mr. Fledgeby mentioned it. I must admit that I could not regard myself in an agreeable light. More particularly, as Mr. Fledgeby did, with great civility, which I could not feel that I deserved from him, render me the same service that you had entreated him to render you.”

It is a part of the true nobility of the poor gentleman’s soul to say this last sentence. “Otherwise,” he has reflected, “I shall assume the superior position of having no difficulties of my own, while I know of hers. Which would be mean, very mean.”

“Was Mr. Fledgeby’s advocacy as effectual in your case as in ours?” Mrs. Lammle demands.

“As ineffectual.”

“Can you make up your mind to tell me where you saw Mr. Fledgeby, Mr. Twemlow?”

“I beg your pardon. I fully intended to have done so. The reservation was not intentional. I encountered Mr. Fledgeby, quite by accident, on the spot. — By the expression, on the spot, I mean at Mr. Riah’s in Saint Mary Axe.”

“Have you the misfortune to be in Mr. Riah’s hands then?”

“Unfortunately, madam,” returns Twemlow, “the one money-obligation to which I stand committed, the one debt of my life (but it is a just debt; pray observe that I don’t dispute it), has fallen into Mr. Riah’s hands.”

“Mr. Twemlow,” says Mrs. Lammle, fixing his eyes with hers: which he would prevent her doing if he could, but he can’t; “it has fallen into Mr. Fledgeby’s hands. Mr. Riah is his mask. It has fallen into Mr.


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