“Why not?”

“Because I say so—­that’s enough, ain’t it?”

“I say—­Polly—­”

“I’ve told you you’re not to say ‘Polly,’” she interrupted archly.

“You’re awfully good, you know—­but I wish—­”

“What?  Never mind; tell me next time.  Ta-ta!”

She ran off, and Christopher had no heart to detain her.  For five minutes he hung over the parapet at Westminster, watching the black flood and asking what was the use of life.  On the whole Mr. Parish found life decidedly agreeable, and after a night’s rest, a little worry notwithstanding, he could go to the City in the great morning procession, one of myriads exactly like him, and would hopefully dip his pen in the inkpots of Swettenham Brothers.

Moggie, the general, was just coming from the public-house with two foaming jugs, one for Mrs. Bubb, the other for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman, her first-floor lodgers.  Miss Sparkes passed her disdainfully, and entered with the aid of a latch-key.  From upstairs sounded a banjo, preluding; then the sound of Mr. Cheeseman’s voice chanting a popular refrain: 

Come where the booze is cheaper,
Come where the pots ’old more,
Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
Come to the pub next door!

Polly could not resist this invitation.  She looked in at the Cheesemans’ sitting-room and enjoyed half an hour of friendly gossip before going to bed.

CHAPTER V

A NONDESCRIPT

Scarcely had quiet fallen upon the house—­it was half an hour after midnight—­when at the front door sounded a discreet but resolute knocking.  Mrs. Bubb, though she had retired to her chamber, was not yet wholly unpresentable; reluctantly, and with wonder, she went to answer the untimely visitor.  After a short parley through the gap of the chained door she ascended several flights and sought to arouse Mr. Gammon—­no easy task.

“What’s up?” shouted her lodger in a voice of half-remembered conviviality.  “House on fire?”

“I hope not indeed.  There wouldn’t have been much chance for you if it was.  It’s your friend Mr. Greenacre, as says he must see you for a minute.”

“All right; send him up, please.  What the dickens can he want at this time o’ night!”

Mr. Gammon having promised to see his visitor out again, with due attention to the house door, the landlady showed a light whilst Mr. Greenacre mounted the stairs.  The gas-jet in his friend’s bedroom displayed him as a gaunt, ill-dressed man of about forty, with a long unwholesome face, lank hair, and prominent eyes.  He began with elaborate apologies, phrased and uttered with more refinement than his appearance would have led one to expect.  No; he would on no account be seated.  Under the circumstances he could not dream of staying more than two, or at most three, minutes.  He felt really ashamed of himself for such a flagrant breach of social custom; but if his friend would listen patiently for one minute—­nay, for less.