It fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early

opportunity of comparing my guardian's establishment with that of his

cashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands with

his scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he

called me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends

which Wemmick had prepared me to receive. "No ceremony," he stipulated,

"and no dinner dress, and say to-morrow."

I asked him where we should

come to (for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his

general objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied,

"Come here, and I'll take you home with me." I embrace this opportunity

of remarking that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or

a dentist. He had a closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose, which

smelt of the scented soap like a perfumer's shop. It had an unusually

large jack-towel on a roller inside the door, and he would wash his

hands, and wipe them and dry them all over this towel, whenever he came

in from a police court or dismissed a client from his room. When I and

my friends repaired to him at six o'clock next day, he seemed to have

been engaged on a case of a darker complexion than usual, for we found

him with his head butted into this closet, not only washing his hands,

but laving his face and gargling his throat. And even when he had

done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel, he took out his

penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before he put his coat

on.

There were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into

the street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was

something so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled

his presence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along

westward, he was recognized ever and again by some face in the crowd of

the streets, and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but

he never otherwise recognized anybody, or took notice that anybody

recognized him.

He conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho, to a house on the south side of

that street. Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in want

of painting, and with dirty windows. He took out his key and opened the

door, and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy, and little used.

So, up a dark brown staircase into a series of three dark brown rooms on

the first floor. There were carved garlands on the panelled walls, and

as he stood among them giving us welcome, I know what kind of loops I

thought they looked like.




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