coat, exceeding smart and dirty too, was actually on his knees at No. 92, bawling through the keyhole supplications to the person within.
"Go away," said a well-known voice, which made Jos thrill, "I expect somebody; I expect my grandpapa. He must'nt see you there."
"Angel Engländerinn!" bellowed the kneeling student with the whitey-brown ringlets and the large finger-ring, "do take compassion upon us. Make an appointment. Dine with me and Fitz at the inn in the park. We will have roast pheasants and porter, plum-pudding and French wine. We shall die if you do'nt."
"That we will," said the young nobleman on the bed—and this colloquy Jos overheard, though he did not comprehend it for the reason that he had never studied the language in which it was carried on.
"Newmero kattervang dooze, si vous plait," Jos said in his grandest manner, when he was able to speak.
"Quater fang tooce!" said the student, starting up, and he bounced into his own room, where he locked the door, and where Jos heard him laughing with his comrade on the bed.
The gentleman from Bengal was standing disconcerted by this incident when the door of the 92 opened of itself, and Becky's little head peeped out full of archness and mischief. She lighted on Jos. "It's you," she said, coming out. "How I have been waiting for you! Stop! not yet—in one minute you shall come in." In that instant she put a rouge-pot, a brandy bottle, and a plate of broken meat into the bed, gave one smooth to her hair, and finally let in her visitor.
She had, by way of morning robe, a pink domino, a trifle faded and soiled, and marked here and there with pomatum; but her arms shone out from the loose sleeves of the dress very white and fair, and it was tied round her little waist, so as not ill to set off the trim little figure of the wearer. She led Jos by the hand into her garret. "Come in," she said. "Come, and talk to me. Sit yonder on the chair;" and she gave the civilian's hand a little squeeze, and laughingly placed him upon it. As for herself, she placed herself on the bed—not on the bottle and plate, you may be sure—on which Jos might have reposed, had he chosen that seat; and so there she sate and talked with her old admirer.
"How little years have changed you," she said, with a look of tender interest. "I should have known you anywhere; what a comfort it is amongst strangers to see once more the frank honest face of an old friend!"
The frank honest face, to tell the truth, at this moment bore any expression but one of openness and honesty: it was, on the contrary, much perturbed and puzzled in look. Jos was surveying the queer little apartment in which he found his old flame. One of her gowns hung over the bed, another depending from a hook of the door: her bonnet obscured half the looking-glass, on which, too, lay the prettiest little pair of bronze boots; a French novel was on the table by the bed side, with a candle, not of wax. Becky had thought of popping that into the bed too, but she only put in the little paper night-cap, with which she had put the candle out on going to sleep.
"I should have known you anywhere," she continued; "a woman never forgets some things. And you were the first man I ever—I ever saw."
