to have been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material——”

Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head.

“—raw material—where Mr. Bounderby, the Banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounderby the Banker does not reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of offering this explanation?”

“No, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “he does not.”

“Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window,” towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, “a lady of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker does live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do.”

The inattention and indolence of his manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit’s thinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage, too. Here he was, for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming—in her way.

“Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must be,” said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more sensible and humorous than it ever contained—which was perhaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that great man: “therefore I may observe that my letter—here it is—is from the member for this place—Gradgrind—whom I have had the pleasure of knowing in London.”

Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounderby’s address, with all needful clues and directions in aid.

“Thousand thanks,” said the stranger. “Of course you know the Banker well?”

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. “In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten years.”

“Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind’s daughter?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her mouth, “he had that—honour.”

“The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. “Is she?”

“Excuse my impertinent curiosity,” pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit’s eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, “but you know the family, and know the world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed reputation that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellantly and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five-and-thirty?”

Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. “A chit,” said she. “Not twenty when she was married.”

“I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler,” returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, “that I never was so astonished in my life!”

It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise in his mind all the time. “I assure you, Mrs. Powler,” he then said, much exhausted, “that the father’s manner prepared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!”

He bowed himself out, and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the town.

“What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?” she asked the light porter when he came to take away.

“Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma’am.”

“It must be admitted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “that it’s very tasteful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, “if that’s worth the money.

“Besides which, ma’am,” resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, “he looks to me as if he gamed.”

“It’s immoral to game,” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“It’s ridiculous, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “because the chances are against the players.”

Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit from working, or whether it was that her hand was out, she did not work that night. She sat at the window, when the sun began to sink behind the smoke; she sat there, when the smoke was burning red, when the colour