to rapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters.  As he says himself, what is public life without private ties?  He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he finds happiness.  No, it must be sought within the confines of domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an acquaintance.  And he does.  He keeps very close to him.  Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him.  He waits to walk home with him.  He is interested in his very boots and observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart.  At the same moment Mr. Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises.  He dotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken for an absent friend.

“Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor—­could you recommend me such a thing?”

“Scores,” says Mr. Bagnet.

“I am obliged to you,” returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.  “You’re a friend in need.  A good tone, mind you!  My friend is a regular dab at it.  Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman.  And you needn’t,” says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, “you needn’t commit yourself to too low a figure, governor.  I don’t want to pay too large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage and be remunerated for your loss of time.  That is but fair.  Every man must live, and ought to it.”

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they have found a jewel of price.

“Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-morrow morning.  Perhaps you could name the figures of a few wiolincellers of a good tone?” says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier.  Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability of having a small stock collected there for approval.

“Thank you,” says Mr. Bucket, “thank you.  Good night, ma’am.  Good night, governor.  Good night, darlings.  I am much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.”

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions of goodwill on both sides.  “Now George, old boy,” says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, “come along!” As they go down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket “almost clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him.”