'Oh, if you please, you're to come upstairs,' replied the tailor's
daughter, with a smile.

Nicholas followed the young lady, and was shown into a small apartment
on the first floor, communicating with a back-room; in which, as he
judged from a certain half-subdued clinking sound, as of cups and
saucers, Miss Snevellicci was then taking her breakfast in bed.

'You're to wait, if you please,' said the tailor's daughter, after a
short period of absence, during which the clinking in the back-room had
ceased, and been succeeded by whispering--'She won't be long.'

As she spoke, she pulled up the window-blind, and having by this means
(as she thought) diverted Mr Johnson's attention from the room to the
street, caught up some articles which were airing on the fender, and had
very much the appearance of stockings, and darted off.

As there were not many objects of interest outside the window, Nicholas
looked about the room with more curiosity than he might otherwise have
bestowed upon it. On the sofa lay an old guitar, several thumbed
pieces of music, and a scattered litter of curl-papers; together with a
confused heap of play-bills, and a pair of soiled white satin shoes
with large blue rosettes. Hanging over the back of a chair was a
half-finished muslin apron with little pockets ornamented with red
ribbons, such as waiting-women wear on the stage, and (by consequence)
are never seen with anywhere else. In one corner stood the diminutive
pair of top-boots in which Miss Snevellicci was accustomed to enact the
little jockey, and, folded on a chair hard by, was a small parcel, which
bore a very suspicious resemblance to the companion smalls.