“Yes; such a woman--vy, didn't she jilt you herself?--hasn't she been trying the same game with Baroski; and are you so green as to give up a hundred and fifty pounds because she takes a fancy to come vimpering here? I won't, I can tell you. The money's as much mine as it is yours, and I'll have it or keep Walker's body, that's what I will.” At the presence of his partner, the timid good genius of Eglantine, which had prompted him to mercy and kindness, at once outspread its frightened wings and flew away. “You see how it is, Mrs. W.,” said he, looking down; “it's an affair of business--in all these here affairs of business Mr. Mossrose is the managing man; ain't you, Mr. Mossrose?” “A pretty business it would be if I wasn't,” replied Mossrose, doggedly. “Come, ma'am,” says he, “I'll tell you vat I do: I take fifty per shent; not a farthing less--give me that, and out your husband goes.” “Oh, sir, Howard will pay you in a week.” “Vell, den, let him stop at my uncle Bendigo's for a week, and come out den--he's very comfortable there,” said Shylock with a grin. “Hadn't you better go to the shop, Mr. Eglantine,” continued he, “and look after your business? Mrs. Walker can't want you to listen to her all day.” Eglantine was glad of the excuse, and slunk out of the studio; not into the shop, but into his parlour; where he drank off a great glass of maraschino, and sat blushing and exceedingly agitated, until Mossrose came to tell him that Mrs. W. was gone, and wouldn't trouble him any more. But although he drank several more glasses of maraschino, and went to the play that night, and to the Cider-cellars afterwards, neither the liquor, nor the play, nor the delightful comic songs at the cellars, could drive Mrs. Walker out of his head, and the memory of old times, and the image of her pale weeping face. Morgiana tottered out of the shop, scarcely heeding the voice of Mr. Mossrose, who said, “I'll take forty per shent” (and went back to his duty cursing himself for a soft-hearted fool for giving up so much of his rights to a puling woman). Morgiana, I say, tottered out of the shop, and went up Conduit Street, weeping, weeping with all her eyes. She was quite faint, for she had taken nothing that morning but the glass of water which the pastry-cook in the Strand had given her, and was forced to take hold of the railings of a house for support just as a little gentleman with a yellow handkerchief under his arm was issuing from the door. “Good heavens, Mrs. Walker!” said the gentleman. It was no other than Mr. Woolsey, who was going forth to try a body-coat for a customer. “Are you ill?--what's the matter?--for God's sake come in!” and he took her arm under his, and led her into his back-parlour, and seated her, and had some wine and water before her in one minute, before she had said one single word regarding herself.