“And so, Miss Jenny,” he said, “I cannot persuade you to dress me a doll?”

“No,” replied Miss Wren snappishly; “If you want one, go and buy it at the shop.”

“And my charming young goddaughter,” said Mr. Wrayburn plaintively, “down in Hertfordshire—­”

("Humbugshire, you mean, I think,” interposed Miss Wren)—­“is to be put upon the cold footing of the general public, and is to derive no advantage from my private acquaintance with the Court dressmaker?”

“If it’s any advantage to your charming godchild, and oh, a precious godfather she has got!” replied Miss Wren, pricking at him in the air with her needle, “to be informed that the Court dressmaker knows your tricks and your manners, you may tell her so, by post, with my compliments.”

Miss Wren was busy with her work, by candlelight, and Mr. Wrayburn, half amused and half vexed, stood by her bench looking on, while her troublesome child was in the corner, in deep disgrace on account of his bad behavior, and as Miss Jenny worked, she rated him severely, accompanying each reproach with a stamp of her foot.

“Pay five shillings for you indeed!” she exclaimed in response to his appeal for money.  “How many hours do you suppose it costs me to earn five shillings, you infamous boy?  Don’t cry like that, or I’ll throw a doll at you.  Pay five shillings fine for you, indeed!  Fine in more ways than one, I think!  I’d give the dustman five shillings to carry you off in the dust-cart.”

The figure in the corner continuing to whine and whimper, Miss Wren covered her face with her hand.  “There!” she said, “I can’t bear to look at you.  Go upstairs and get me my bonnet and shawl.  Make yourself useful in some way, bad boy, and let me have your room instead of your company, for one half minute.”

Obeying her, he shambled out, and Mr. Wrayburn, pitying, saw the tears exude between the little creature’s fingers, as she kept her hand before her eyes.

“I am going to the Italian Opera to try on,” said Miss Wren, taking away her hand, and laughing satirically to hide that she had been crying.  “But let me first tell you, Mr. Wrayburn, once for all, that it’s no use your paying visits to me.  You wouldn’t get what you want of me, no, not if you brought pincers with you to tear it out.”

With which statement, and a further admonition to her father, who had come back, she blew her candles out, and taking her big door-key in her pocket, and her crutch-stick in her hand, marched off.

Not many months later, one day while Miss Wren was waiting in the office of Pubsey and Co., for Mr. Riah to come in and sell her the waste she was accustomed to buy, she overheard a conversation between Mr. Fledgeby, who had apparently happened in, and a friend who was also waiting for Mr. Riah.