The visitor was a little man with grey hair and a white cravat, some sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat,—­which, on entering the room, he at once put down on the nearest chair,—­with reference to whom, any judge on the subject would have concurred at first sight in the decision pronounced by Mrs. Bunce, though none but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions could have given the reasons for that early decision.  “He ain’t a gentleman,” Mrs. Bunce had said.  And the man certainly was not a gentleman.  The old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed, and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed arrogance which is at once fatal to another class.  But, nevertheless, Mrs. Bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman,—­had seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one mission.  She was right there too.  This visitor had come about money.

“About this bill, Mr. Finn,” said the visitor, proceeding to take out of his breast coat-pocket a rather large leathern case, as he advanced up towards the fire.  “My name is Clarkson, Mr. Finn.  If I may venture so far, I’ll take a chair.”

“Certainly, Mr. Clarkson,” said Phineas, getting up and pointing to a seat.

“Thankye, Mr. Finn, thankye.  We shall be more comfortable doing business sitting, shan’t we?” Whereupon the horrid little man drew himself close in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio lay this identical bit which he was seeking.  He seemed to be quite at home, and to feel that there was no ground whatever for hurry in such comfortable quarters.  Phineas hated him at once,—­with a hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend Fitzgibbon had brought upon him.

“Here it is,” said Mr. Clarkson at last.  “Oh, dear me, dear me! the third of November, and here we are in March!  I didn’t think it was so bad as this;—­I didn’t indeed.  This is very bad,—­very bad!  And for Parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual than anybody, because of the privilege.  Shouldn’t they now, Mr. Finn?”

“All men should be punctual, I suppose,” said Phineas.

“Of course they should; of course they should.  I always say to my gents, ‘Be punctual, and I’ll do anything for you.’  But, perhaps, Mr. Finn, you can hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and I will begin square.”

“Indeed I cannot, Mr. Clarkson.”

“Not hand me a cheque for it!”

“Upon my word, no.”

“That’s very bad;—­very bad indeed.  Then I suppose I must take the half, and renew for the remainder, though I don’t like it;—­I don’t indeed.”

“I can pay no part of that bill, Mr. Clarkson.”

“Pay no part of it!” and Mr. Clarkson, in order that he might the better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of poking his host’s fire.