(A knock at the door.) That single rap at the street door is very
like the loud determined knock of a dun. The servant is ascending
the stairs--it must be so--she advances upon the second flight;--good
heavens, how stupid!--I particularly told her I should not be in town
to any of these people for a month. The inattention of servants is
unbearable; they can tell fibs
~9~~
enough to suit their own purposes, but a little white one to serve a
gentleman lodger, to put off an impertinent tradesman, or save him from
the toils of a sheriffs officer, is sure to be marred in the relation,
or altogether forgotten. I'll lock my chamber door, however, by way of
precaution. (Servant knocking.) "What do you want?" "Mr. Index, sir, the
little gentleman in black." "Show him up, Betty, directly." The key
is instantly turned; the door set wide open; and I am again seated in
comfort at my table: the solicitude, fear, and anxiety, attendant upon
the apprehensions of surprise, a bailiff, and a prison, all vanish in a
moment.
"My dear Index, you are welcome; the last person I expected, although
the first I could have wished to have seen: to what fortunate
circumstance am I to attribute the honor of this friendly visit?"
"Business, sir; I am a man of business: your last publication has sold
pretty well, considering how dreadfully it was cut up in the reviews;
I have some intention of reprinting a short edition, if you are not too
exorbitant in your demands; not that I think the whole number will be
sold, but there is a chance of clearing the expenses.
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