He turned round, and there was Mr.Bartley seated at his own table.

Young Clifford walked smartly to the other side of the table, determined this should be his last day in that shop.
"There are the payments," said he.
Bartley inspected them.
"About one in five," said he, dryly.
"Thereabouts," was the reply.

(Consummate indifference.) "You can't have pressed them much." "Well, I am not good at dunning." "What _are_ you good at ?" "Should be puzzled to say." "You are not fit for trade." "That is the highest compliment was ever paid me." "Oh, you are impertinent as well as incompetent, are you?
Then take a week's warning, Mr.Bolton." "Five minutes would suit me better, Mr.Bartley." "Oh! indeed! Say one hour." "All right, sir; just time for a city clerk's luncheon--glass of bitter, sandwich, peep at _Punch_, cigarette, and a chat with the bar-maid." Mr.Walter Clifford was a gentleman, but we must do him the justice to say that in this interview with his employer he was a very impertinent one, not only in words, but in the delivery thereof.

Bartley, however, thought this impertinence was put on, and that he had grave reasons for being in a hurry.

He took down the numbers of the notes Clifford had given him, and looked very grave and suspicious all the time.
Then he locked up the notes in the safe, and just then Hope opened the door of the little office and looked in.
"At last," said Bartley.
"Well, sir," said Hope, "I have only been half an hour, and I have changed my clothes and stood witness to a marriage.