Prudence’s eyes were wide with amazement. "Ow, Mr. Baffin," she tittered, "yew _are_ a funny men! ... I got pretty things at ’owm. But what’s the good o’ wearin’ ’em out in the studios?" "You are lacking, my dear girl, in the quality of perception." Baffin uttered these words with an oracular air. The Comrades made their adieux. "Not if she _paid_ me to paint her," whispered No. 1, with a jerk of the head towards Prudence. "But, Lord, _what_ a profile! A tricky man could work wonders with that head." "Pity she spoils herself," added Comrade No. 2. And they departed. "Hear what those gentlemen said?" demanded Baffin, as the door closed.... "You are too talkative, and you giggle too much, and you wriggle too much. And you should leave off red flannel, and make yourself nice. You could make a lot of money if you took care of yourself. Think of the nice things you could give your mother then!" "My mother’s got a abscess," moaned Prudence, "an’ I believe she’ll die, an’ then I’ll starve, ’cause I’m a good-for-nothin’ gel, an’ I wown’t sit still, an’—an’ me figure’s too flat. But I’m learnin’ to croshy, an’ I _will_ be better. Shall I come termorrer, Mr. Baffin?" "Come on Friday," answered Baffin. "And," he added, "come in a nice, unwrigglesome frame of mind. You shall have cream and tea and muffins if you are a good girl." "Ooer!" cried Prudence. "I like muffins. And I like cream, and I like claret... ’Ere"—her face suddenly grew grave, grave as a child’s at play with toys—"’ere, Mr. Baffin, do you believe in auctioneers?" "Do I believe in _what_?" shouted Baffin. "Auctioneers," repeated Prudence, with a pout. "Don’t be angry with me; I won’t ask agen, if you don’t like. "On’y ... what you want to look at me so queer for? I can’t ’elp bein’ silly. I _am_ silly. On’y ... I wonder if a auctioneer is the sort of man that anybody ought to trust?" *XVII* *MR. WEST’S WIFE* "Is this the young man?" said Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, sitting up in bed and shading a very white face with a very hot hand. "Oh, I daresay ’e’ll do! ’Tain’t much, I’m told. No doubt ’e’ll manage it." That task which Mrs. West, of Mulberry Street, thus coldly confided to my management was the witnessing of her will. Dr. Brink had volunteered to execute this document for her; and a sniggering youth had haled me from the snugness of the doctor’s waiting chariot to come upstairs and sign. After my formal presentation to Mrs. West, there was an interval of silence, broken only by the scratchy-scratchy of the doctor’s pen, as he hastily constructed a form of bequest.