He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook’s Court, the rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook’s Court, therefore, he repairs.  Mr. Snagsby is behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of several skins which has just come in from the engrosser’s, an immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the traveller from despair.  Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business.

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Snagsby?”

The stationer’s heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated.  It is as much as he can do to answer, “No, sir, I can’t say I do.  I should have considered—­not to put too fine a point upon it—­that I never saw you before, sir.”

“Twice before,” says Allan Woodcourt.  “Once at a poor bedside, and once—­”

“It’s come at last!” thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him.  “It’s got to a head now and is going to burst!” But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door.

“Are you a married man, sir?”

“No, I am not.”

“Would you make the attempt, though single,” says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, “to speak as low as you can?  For my little woman is a-listening somewheres, or I’ll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!”

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back against his desk, protesting, “I never had a secret of my own, sir.  I can’t charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman on my own account since she named the day.  I wouldn’t have done it, sir.  Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn’t have done it, I dursn’t have done it.  Whereas, and nevertheless, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to me.”

His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he remember Jo.  Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don’t he!

“You couldn’t name an individual human being—­except myself—­that my little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,” says Mr. Snagsby.

Allan asks why.

“Why?” repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump of hair at the back of his bald head.  “How should I know why?  But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a question!”

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to communicate.