"He hardly thought you'd come so soon," Mr. Wemmick explained. "You don't want me any more?"

     "No, thank you," said I.

     "As I keep the cash," Mr. Wemmick observed, "we shall most likely meet pretty often. Good day."

     "Good day."

     I put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he thought I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting himself,--

     "To be sure! Yes. You're in the habit of shaking hands?"

     I was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion, but said yes.

     "I have got so out of it!" said Mr. Wemmick,--"except at last. Very glad, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day!"

     When we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window and had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and it came down like the guillotine. Happily it was so quick that I had not put my head out. After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view of the Inn through the window's encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully looking out, saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.