actually almost effected a start, when it
occurred to him to ask a question or two
about the general state of the market. These
being satisfactorily answered, he got a little
way again towards the door, but returned
immediately to inquire whether I didn't think
that perhaps, upon the whole, he had better
invest at once, without saying anything to
Mrs. S. about it. Then, upon my replying to
this extraordinary question that he must be a
better judge of that than I could be, he said,
yes,—he supposed he was; but really he did
not know what to do. At last I offered to
keep the refusal for him if he wished it, till
the next day; upon which he seemed so
happy at being able to put off the task of
deciding till then, that I felt quite a load off my
own mind at seeing him so much relieved. He
only came back three times after that,—once
to ask if he might leave his parcel in my office
till he called the next day. Then, on my
consenting to this, he returned to know whether
I thought it would rain any more, because if
I was of opinion that it wouldn't, he would
ask permission to leave his umbrella along
with the parcel. This, as I pronounced that
I thought it was going to be fine, he
proceeded to do, but came back again in a
minute or two to fetch it, saying that he was
sorry to differ with me, but he thought I was
mistaken about the weather, and that it
would most certainly rain. With this he
departed, though I saw him afterwards—
through the glass-door—revolving upon the
top of the steps in an agony of indecision
whether he should return again or no,
and I think if it had not been time for
the office to close he would never have got
away at all.

I have only to add to this description of
my first interview with Mr. Smallchange, an
announcement of the fact that by an
extraordinary coincidence, Mrs. Smallchange
turned out to be, on the whole, though
quite unaware of the fact, rather more irresolute
and incapable of seeing what was the
right thing to do, than her husband. I became
acquainted with this excellent lady through
a circumstance highly characteristic of that
unpunctuality which formed an important
ingredient in her husband's nature.

Mr. Smallchauge wrote to ask me to call
upon him on the subject of the investment at
a certain hour. Having made this appointment,
it was only part of my client's character
to be out of the way, as a matter of
course, at the time on which he had originally
decided to receive me. The first person I
saw, on entering the house, was Mrs. Smallchange.

"You have called about the investment,
Mr. Kershaw?" said the lady. "Mr. Smallchange
has just stepped out. The fact is, he
can't quite make up his mind about
anything.  We are always moving, and always
changing servants—always living in houses
to let, with people going over them when we
are at our meals, or Mr. Smallchange shaving.
Mr. S. never knows his own mind—never
knows whether he ought to do a thing or
not till he's done it, and then always finds
he ought not. Five moves in two years!
Eleven housemaids in the same short time,
and twenty-two cooks, and only one out of the
number who could send up a dinner.—Well,
Jane, what is it?"

This was addressed to a lady, who, from a
certain flushed irritability of aspect, gave me
the impression of being a member of the
profession just alluded to, and who, entering the
room at this moment, appeared to be waiting
eagerly for an opportunity of cutting in, in
the conversation.

"If you please, mem," said this person,
"'ave you made up your mind about the
dinner?"

"No, Jane; I can't speak to you just
now."

"If you please, mem, the time is getting on,
and if the dinner is late it will be no fault
of mine."

"Very well, then, we'll have the veal
cutlets."

With this the artist appeared satisfied, and
commenced a somewhat hasty retreat, as if
with a prophetic dread of being called back
again. If she had any such foreboding, it
certainly proved to be tolerably well
grounded.

"Stop, Jane," said Mrs. Smallchange, as
that functionary was about to close the door,
"stop! your master doesn't like veal."

The artist remained at the door, holding it
in her hand, and wearing an expression of
countenance which boded no good. It was a
combination of aggression and pronounced
patience, with a dogged unsuggestiveness.
She was evidently expected to offer a little
kindly advice as to what had better be done,
and was equally evidently determined to do
nothing of the kind. So she remained silent,
holding the door, as I have said, in her hand,
and looking up— people always look upwards
when they intend to be offensively resigned—
at the highest discernible bricks of the house
on the opposite side of the street.

"I'm sure I don't know what we'd better
have," said poor Mrs. Smallchange, in a tone
that would have melted any breast but a
cook's.

The artist slightly lowered her head, and,
raising her eyes at the same time, managing
by these means to get a higher row of bricks
within range. Having succeeded in this, her
resignation and patience were a sight to
behold. She also slightly creaked the door.

"Well, I suppose," said Mrs. Smallchange,
desperately, " we must have a haricot of
mutton."

It was a well-conceived and well-executed
plan of insult on the part of our artist, that,
when this order was given, she did not stir or
alter her position. It said so plainly, " What's
the use of my attempting to go ; you know