Rosa’s face began to work piteously.

“Accordingly, what did the broker in question do?  He winked to another broker, and these two bid against one another, over their victim’s head, and ran everything she wanted up at least a hundred per cent above the value.  So open and transparent a swindle I have seldom seen, even in an auction-room.  Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

His mirth was interrupted by Rosa going to her husband, hiding her head on his shoulder, and meekly crying.

Christopher comforted her like a man.  “Don’t you cry, darling,” said he; “how should a pure creature like you know the badness of the world all in a moment?  If it is my wife you are laughing at, Uncle Philip, let me tell you this is the wrong place.  I’d rather a thousand times have her as she is, than armed with the cunning and suspicions of a hardened old worldling like you.”

“With all my heart,” said Uncle Philip, who, to do him justice, could take blows as well as give them; “but why employ a broker?  Why pay a scoundrel five per cent to make you pay a hundred per cent?  Why pay a noisy fool a farthing to open his mouth for you when you have taken the trouble to be there yourself, and have got a mouth of your own to bid discreetly with?  Was ever such an absurdity?” He began to get angry.

“Do you want to quarrel with me, Uncle Philip?” said Christopher, firing up; “because sneering at my Rosa is the way, and the only way, and the sure way.”

“Oh, no,” said Rosa, interposing.  “Uncle Philip was right.  I am very foolish and inexperienced, but I am not so vain as to turn from good advice.  I will never employ a broker again, sir.”

Uncle Philip smiled and looked pleased.

Mrs. Cole caused a diversion by taking leave, and Rosa followed her down-stairs.  On her return she found Christopher telling his uncle all about the Bijou, and how he had taken it for a hundred and thirty pounds a year and a hundred pounds premium, and Uncle Philip staring fearfully.

At last he found his tongue.  “The Bijou!” said he.  “Why, that is a name they gave to a little den in Dear Street, Mayfair.  You haven’t ever been and taken that!  Built over a mews.”

Christopher groaned.  “That is the place, I fear.”

“Why the owner is a friend of mine; an old patient.  Stables stunk him out.  Let it to a man; I forget his name.  Stables stunk him out.  He said, ‘I shall go.’  ‘You can’t,’ said my friend; ‘you have taken a lease.’  ‘Lease be d—­d,’ said the other; ’I never took your house; here’s quite a large stench not specified in your description of the property—­it can’t be the same place;’ flung the lease at his head, and cut like the wind to foreign parts less odoriferous.  I’d have got you the hole for ninety; but you are like your wife—­you must go to an agent.  What! don’t you know that an agent is a man acting for you with an interest