on, Overtop, and Maltboy asserted, without rising from
their seats, that they had not seen her scissors, and doubted very much
whether the scissors were in that room. But Wesley Tiffles, who was the
most polite and obliging of mortals when there was a lady in the case,
rose respectfully upon her entrance, and insisted upon searching the
apartment for the missing tool.

Miss Wilkeson, thus being placed under obligations to Mr. Tiffles, was
compelled to take personal cognizance of him, which she did with the
nearest approach to a blush that she was ever known to make. "I beg,
sir, that you will not trouble yourself. I--I do not think the scissors
are here, after all."

"That can be ascertained only by searching, miss," replied Tiffles. Then
he glided about the room in his own nimble fashion, looking behind the
two vases on the mantelpiece, raking over the littered burden of the
table in the corner, and peering and poking into every place where there
was the least likelihood of finding a stray pair of scissors; Miss
Wilkeson all the while deprecating any further search.

Mr. Tiffles suddenly stopped, like a dragonfly in the midst of his
angular dartings, and said: "Since your scissors are not to be found, it
is fortunate that I have a pocket pair, which are always at your
service." Mr. Tiffles produced the ill-omened article, and handed it to
her. This called out a new lot of thanks, regrets for having troubled
him, apologies, and a peremptory refusal to take his scissors,
immediately followed by their acceptance, and a promise that she would
take the best care of them, and return them to the owner on his
next visit.

Then was the auspicious moment for Miss Wilkeson to have retired with
dignity; but she stood at the door, twirling the fatal scissors in her
hand, and waiting either to say something which did not come
spontaneously, or to have something said to her.

Marcus Wilkeson saw a subtle motive in this awkward tarrying at the
door, and, having no objection to gratifying it, he straightway
introduced Mr. Wesley Tiffles to Miss Philomela Wilkeson. Mr. Tiffles
put himself into the form of an L, like a professional acrobat; and Miss
Wilkeson executed a courtesy in the old, exploded style. Then, as if
appalled at what she had done, she backed into the entry as fast as she
had come from it.

Mr. Tiffles, upon whom the small events of life made no impression,
thought no more of Miss Wilkeson that evening, but smoked