thought of your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were sweet after Miss V.” “Why, you don’t suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had not wanted things, do you?” “Never gave it a thought,” said I. “And so you didn’t buy anything after all?” “No,” said Retort. “Did you?” “Well—er—er—um, ye-e-es; a few things—a few.” “Things went dear, though, didn’t they?” “Well, yes, on the whole, they did. But what did you bid for?” “Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds.” I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn’t speak. “Then,” continued my dear friend, “I wanted those card and occasional tables, but couldn’t get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at six ten, and the china for seven pounds. Then I took a strong fancy to that wool mattress, but of course I wasn’t going to give five guineas for it. It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one could buy it new for the money, or less.” “Did you bid for any of the plate?” I gasped in husky tones. “Well, ’pon my word, old chap, I’m half ashamed to own it, but I really was stupid enough to go as far as eleven and sixpence an ounce for it—which is an absurd price, you know. But there, thank goodness! I’ve escaped, for I haven’t bought a single lot.” I did not speak for quite five minutes, for the simple reason that I could not. What was I to do, or what was I to say? I wanted to call him names, and take him by the collar to shake him till his teeth chattered. But who could so treat a guest? “Let’s go up and have some tea,” I said at last, very hoarsely; and then, recovering myself, I stopped him, for I felt sure he would begin talking upstairs, while Mrs Scribe, on the subject being broached, would ask—what as yet she had not had opportunity for—what I had secured. “Stop a minute, Tom,” I said. “Don’t say a word about the sale upstairs.”
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