“Shall I tell her?” said I.

“Would you be so good?” he returned with a glance of something like apprehension at Miss Flite.  “It’s a providence I met you, miss; I doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady.”  And he put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand.

“My angry friend from Shropshire!  Almost as celebrated as myself!” she exclaimed.  “Now really!  My dear, I will wait upon him with the greatest pleasure.”

“He is living concealed at Mr. George’s,” said I.  “Hush!  This is Mr. George.”

“In—­deed!” returned Miss Flite.  “Very proud to have the honour!  A military man, my dear.  You know, a perfect general!” she whispered to me.

Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it was no easy matter to get her out of the court.  When this was at last done, and addressing Mr. George as “General,” she gave him her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully “not to desert him” that I could not make up my mind to do it, especially as Miss Flite was always tractable with me and as she too said, “Fitz Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of course.”  As Richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their destination, we agreed to do so.  And as Mr. George informed us that Gridley’s mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon after hearing of their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone and why.  Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter.

We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.  We walked through some narrow courts, for which Mr. George apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of which was closed.  As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed him.

“I ask your pardon, my good friend,” said he, “but is this George’s Shooting Gallery?”

“It is, sir,” returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great letters in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.

“Oh!  To be sure!” said the old gentleman, following his eyes.  “Thank you.  Have you rung the bell?”

“My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell.”

“Oh, indeed?” said the old gentleman.  “Your name is George?  Then I am here as soon as you, you see.  You came for me, no doubt?”

“No, sir.  You have the advantage of me.”