'The waiter's quite helpless.

The goods are gone, Fred, and there's an end of it.' In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome truth, for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was informed by Mr Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call and settle when he should be passing presently, he displayed some perturbation of spirit and muttered a few remarks about 'payment on delivery' and 'no trust,' and other unpleasant subjects, but was fain to content himself with inquiring at what hour it was likely that the gentleman would call, in order that being presently responsible for the beef, greens, and sundries, he might take to be in the way at the time.
Mr Swiveller, after mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety, replied that he should look in at from two minutes before six and seven minutes past; and the man disappearing with this feeble consolation, Richards Swiveller took a greasy memorandum-book from his pocket and made an entry therein.
'Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call ?' said Trent with a sneer.
'Not exactly, Fred,' replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to write with a businesslike air.

'I enter in this little book the names of the streets that I can't go down while the shops are open.

This dinner today closes Long Acre.

I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen Street last week, and made that no throughfare too.