The enthusiasm of Mr. Slang almost reconciled Lady Thrum to the abruptness of his manners, and even caused Sir George to forget that his chorus had been interrupted by the obstreperous familiarity of the manager. “And what do YOU think, Mr. Bludyer,” said the tailor, delighted that his protegee should be thus winning all hearts: “isn't Mrs. Walker a tip-top singer, eh, sir?” “I think she's a very bad one, Mr. Woolsey,” said the illustrious author, wishing to abbreviate all communications with a tailor to whom he owed forty pounds. “Then, sir,” says Mr. Woolsey, fiercely, “I'll--I'll thank you to pay me my little bill!” It is true there was no connection between Mrs. Walker's singing and Woolsey's little bill; that the “THEN, sir,” was perfectly illogical on Woolsey's part; but it was a very happy hit for the future fortunes of Mrs. Walker. Who knows what would have come of her debut but for that “Then, sir,” and whether a “smashing article” from the Tomahawk might not have ruined her for ever? “Are you a relation of Mrs. Walker's?” said Mr. Bludyer, in reply to the angry tailor. “What's that to you, whether I am or not?” replied Woolsey, fiercely. “But I'm the friend of Mrs. Walker, sir; proud am I to say so, sir; and, as the poet says, sir, 'a little learning's a dangerous thing,' sir; and I think a man who don't pay his bills may keep his tongue quiet at least, sir, and not abuse a lady, sir, whom everybody else praises, sir. You shan't humbug ME any more, sir; you shall hear from my attorney to-morrow, so mark that!” “Hush, my dear Mr. Woolsey,” cried the literary man, “don't make a noise; come into this window: is Mrs. Walker REALLY a friend of yours?” “I've told you so, sir.” “Well, in that case, I shall do my utmost to serve her and, look you, Woolsey, any article you choose to send about her to the Tomahawk I promise you I'll put in.” “WILL you, though? then we'll say nothing about the little bill.” “You may do on that point,” answered Bludyer, haughtily, “exactly as you please. I am not to be frightened from my duty, mind that; and mind, too, that I can write a slashing article better than any man in England: I could crush her by ten lines.” The tables were now turned, and it was Woolsey's turn to be alarmed. “Pooh! pooh! I WAS angry,” said he, “because you abuse Mrs. Walker, who's an angel on earth; but I'm very willing to apologise. I say--come--let me take your measure for some new clothes, eh! Mr. B.?” “I'll come to your shop,” answered the literary man, quite appeased. “Silence! they're beginning another song.” The songs, which I don't attempt to describe (and, upon my word and honour, as far as I can understand matters, I believe to this day that Mrs. Walker was only an ordinary singer)--the songs lasted a great deal longer than I liked; but I was nailed, as it were, to the spot, having agreed to sup at Knightsbridge barracks with Fitz-Urse, whose carriage was ordered at eleven o'clock.