`Fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound, four and ninepence ha'penny,' replied Mr Scaley, without moving a limb.

`The halfpenny be demd,' said Mr Mantalini, impatiently.

`By all means if you vish it,' retorted Mr Scaley; `and the ninepence.'

`It don't matter to us if the fifteen hundred and twenty-seven pound went along with it, that I know on,' observed Mr Tix.

`Not a button,' said Scaley.

`Well,' said the same gentleman, alter a pause, `wot's to be done--anything? Is it only a small crack, or a out-and-out smash? A break-up of the constitootion is it?--werry good. Then Mr Tom Tix, esk-vire, you must inform your angel wife and lovely family as you won't sleep at home for three nights to come, along of being in possession here. Wot's the good of the lady a fretting herself?' continued Mr Scaley, as Madame Mantalini sobbed. `A good half of wot's here isn't paid for, I des-say, and wot a consolation oughtn't that to be to her feelings!'

With these remarks, combing great pleasantry with sound moral encouragement under difficulties, Mr Scaley proceeded to take the inventory, in which delicate task he was materially assisted by the uncommon tact and experience of Mr Tix, the broker.

`My cup of happiness's sweetener,' said Mantalini, approaching his wife with a penitent air; `will you listen to me for two minutes?'

`Oh! don't speak to me,' replied his wife, sobbing. `You have ruined me, and that's enough.'

Mr Mantalini, who had doubtless well considered his part, no sooner heard these words pronounced in a tone of grief and severity, than he recoiled several paces, assumed an expression of consuming mental agony, rushed headlong from the room, and was, soon afterwards, heard to slam the door of an upstairs dressing-room with great violence.

`Miss Nickleby,' cried Madame Mantalini, when this sound met her ear, `make haste, for Heaven's sake, he will destroy himself! I spoke unkindly to him, and he cannot bear it from me. Alfred, my darling Alfred.'

With such exclamations, she hurried upstairs, followed by Kate who, although she did not quite participate in the fond wife's apprehensions, was a little flurried, nevertheless. The dressing-room door being hastily flung open, Mr Mantalini was disclosed to view, with his shirt-collar symmetrically thrown back: putting a fine edge to a breakfast knife by means of his razor strop.

`Ah!' cried Mr Mantalini, `interrupted!' and whisk went the breakfast knife into Mr Mantalini's dressing- gown pocket, while Mr Mantalini's eyes rolled wildly, and his hair floating in wild disorder, mingled with his whiskers.

`Alfred,' cried his wife, flinging her arms about him, `I didn't mean to say it, I didn't mean to say it!'

`Ruined!' cried Mr Mantalini. `Have I brought ruin upon the best and purest creature that ever blessed a demnition vagabond! Demmit, let me go.' At this crisis of his ravings Mr Mantalini made a pluck at the breakfast knife, and being restrained by his wife's grasp, attempted to dash his head against the wall-- taking very good care to be at least six feet from it.

`Compose yourself, my own angel,' said Madame. `It was nobody's fault; it was mine as much as yours, we shall do very well yet. Come, Alfred, come.'