Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care, and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family were in the country. Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where, at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman, whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own picture—a full length; a very full length—hanging over the fireplace. ‘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.’ Sir Joseph delivered these words as if he felt the full morality of what he was saying; and desired that even Trotty should have an opportunity of being improved by such discourse. Possibly he had this end before him in still forbearing to break the seal of the letter, and in telling Trotty to wait where he was, a minute. ‘You were desiring Mr. Fish to say, my lady—’ observed Sir Joseph. ‘Mr. Fish has said that, I believe,’ returned his lady, glancing at the letter. ‘But, upon my word, Sir Joseph, I don’t think I can let it go after all. It is so very dear.’ ‘What is dear?’ inquired Sir Joseph. ‘That Charity, my love. They only allow two votes for a subscription of five pounds. Really monstrous!’