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‘What is this?’ said the last-named gentleman. ‘Mr. Fish, will you have the goodness to attend?’

Mr. Fish begged pardon, and taking the letter from Toby, handed it, with great respect.

‘From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.’

‘Is this all? Have you nothing else, Porter?’ inquired Sir Joseph.

Toby replied in the negative.

‘You have no bill or demand upon me — my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley — of any kind from anybody, have you?’ said Sir Joseph. ‘If you have, present it. There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish. I allow nothing to be carried into the New Year. Every description of account is settled in this house at the close of the old one. So that if death was to — to —’

‘To cut,’ suggested Mr. Fish.

‘To sever, sir,’ returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, ‘the cord of existence — my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of preparation.’

‘My dear Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, who was greatly younger than the gentleman. ‘How shocking!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, floundering now and then, as in the great depth of his observations, ‘at this season of the year we should think of — of — ourselves. We should look into our — our accounts. We should feel that every return of so eventful a period in human transactions, involves a matter of deep moment between a man and his — and his banker.’