There were not above a dozen private persons visible from where Rosa sat; perhaps as many more in the whole room.  They were easily distinguishable by their cleanly appearance:  the dealers, male or female, were more or less rusty, greasy, dirty, aquiline.  Not even the amateurs were brightly dressed; that fundamental error was confined to Mesdames Cole and Staines.  The experienced, however wealthy, do not hunt bargains in silk and satin.

The auctioneer called “Lot 7.  Four saucepans, two trays, a kettle, a bootjack, and a towel-horse.”

These were put up at two shillings, and speedily knocked down for five to a fat old woman in a greasy velvet jacket; blind industry had sewed bugles on it, not artfully, but agriculturally.

“The lady on the left!” said the auctioneer to his clerk.  That meant “Get the money.”

The old lady plunged a huge paw into a huge pocket, and pulled out a huge handful of coin—­copper, silver, and gold—­and paid for the lot; and Rosa surveyed her dirty hands and nails with innocent dismay.  “Oh, what a dreadful creature!” she whispered; “and what can she want with those old rubbishy things?  I saw a hole in one from here.”  The broker overheard, and said, “She is a dealer, ma’am, and the things were given away.  She’ll sell them for a guinea, easy.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Mrs. Cole.

Soon after this the superior lots came on, and six very neat bedroom chairs were sold to all appearance for fifteen shillings.

The next lot was identical, and Rosa hazarded a bid,—­“Sixteen shillings.”

Instantly some dealer, one of the hook-nosed that gathered round each lot as it came to the foot of the table, cried “Eighteen shillings.”

“Nineteen,” said Rosa.

“A guinea,” said the dealer.

“Don’t let it go,” said the broker behind her.  “Don’t let it go, ma’am.”

She colored at the intrusion, and left off bidding directly, and addressed herself to Mrs. Cole.  “Why should I give so much, when the last were sold for fifteen shillings?”

The real reason was that the first lot was not bid for at all, except by the proprietor.  However, the broker gave her a very different solution; he said, “The trade always run up a lady or a gentleman.  Let me bid for you; they won’t run me up; they know better.”

Rosa did not reply, but looked at Mrs. Cole.

“Yes, dear,” said that lady; “you had much better let him bid for you.”

“Very well,” said Rosa; “you can bid for this chest of drawers—­lot 25.”

When lot 25 came on, the broker bid in the silliest possible way, if his object had been to get a bargain.  He began to bid early and ostentatiously; the article was protected by somebody or other there present, who now of course saw his way clear; he ran it up audaciously, and it was purchased for Rosa at about the price it could have been bought for at a shop.