CHAPTER 17.
Follows the Fortunes of Miss Nickleby It was with a heavy heart, and many sad forebodings which no effort could banish, that Kate Nickleby, on the morning appointed for the commencement of her engagement with Madame Mantalini, left the city when its clocks yet wanted a quarter of an hour of eight, and threaded her way alone, amid the noise and bustle of the streets, towards the west end of London.
At this early hour many sickly girls, whose business, like that of the poor worm, is to produce, with patient toil, the finery that bedecks the thoughtless and luxurious, traverse our streets, making towards the scene of their daily labour, and catching, as if by stealth, in their hurried walk, the only gasp of wholesome air and glimpse of sunlight which cheer their monotonous existence during the long train of hours that make a working day.

As she drew nigh to the more fashionable quarter of the town, Kate marked many of this class as they passed by, hurrying like herself to their painful occupation, and saw, in their unhealthy looks and feeble gait, but too clear an evidence that her misgivings were not wholly groundless.
She arrived at Madame Mantalini's some minutes before the appointed hour, and after walking a few times up and down, in the hope that some other female might arrive and spare her the embarrassment of stating her business to the servant, knocked timidly at the door: which, after some delay, was opened by the footman, who had been putting on his striped jacket as he came upstairs, and was now intent on fastening his apron.
'Is Madame Mantalini in ?' faltered Kate.
'Not often out at this time, miss,' replied the man in a tone which rendered "Miss," something more offensive than "My dear." 'Can I see her ?' asked Kate.
'Eh ?' replied the man, holding the door in his hand, and honouring the inquirer with a stare and a broad grin, 'Lord, no.' 'I came by her own appointment,' said Kate; 'I am--I am--to be employed here.' 'Oh! you should have rung the worker's bell,' said the footman, touching the handle of one in the door-post.

'Let me see, though, I forgot--Miss Nickleby, is it ?' 'Yes,' replied Kate.
'You're to walk upstairs then, please,' said the man.

'Madame Mantalini wants to see you--this way--take care of these things on the floor.' Cautioning her, in these terms, not to trip over a heterogeneous litter of pastry-cook's trays, lamps, waiters full of glasses, and piles of rout seats which were strewn about the hall, plainly bespeaking a late party on the previous night, the man led the way to the second story, and ushered Kate into a back-room, communicating by folding-doors with the apartment in which she had first seen the mistress of the establishment.
'If you'll wait here a minute,' said the man, 'I'll tell her presently.' Having made this promise with much affability, he retired and left Kate alone.
There was not much to amuse in the room; of which the most attractive feature was, a half-length portrait in oil, of Mr Mantalini, whom the artist had depicted scratching his head in an easy manner, and thus displaying to advantage a diamond ring, the gift of Madame Mantalini before her marriage.

There was, however, the sound of voices in conversation in the next room; and as the conversation was loud and the partition thin, Kate could not help discovering that they belonged to Mr and Mrs Mantalini.
'If you will be odiously, demnebly, outrIgeously jealous, my soul,' said Mr Mantalini, 'you will be very miserable--horrid miserable--demnition miserable.' And then, there was a sound as though Mr Mantalini were sipping his coffee.
'I AM miserable,' returned Madame Mantalini, evidently pouting.
'Then you are an ungrateful, unworthy, demd unthankful little fairy,' said Mr Mantalini.
'I am not,' returned Madame, with a sob.
'Do not put itself out of humour,' said Mr Mantalini, breaking an egg.
'It is a pretty, bewitching little demd countenance, and it should not be out of humour, for it spoils its loveliness, and makes it cross and gloomy like a frightful, naughty, demd hobgoblin.' 'I am not to be brought round in that way, always,' rejoined Madame, sulkily.
'It shall be brought round in any way it likes best, and not brought round at all if it likes that better,' retorted Mr Mantalini, with his egg-spoon in his mouth.
'It's very easy to talk,' said Mrs Mantalini.
'Not so easy when one is eating a demnition egg,' replied Mr Mantalini; 'for the yolk runs down the waistcoat, and yolk of egg does not match any waistcoat but a yellow waistcoat, demmit.' 'You were flirting with her during the whole night,' said Madame Mantalini, apparently desirous to lead the conversation back to the point from which it had strayed.
'No, no, my life.' 'You were,' said Madame; 'I had my eye upon you all the time.' 'Bless the little winking twinkling eye; was it on me all the time!' cried Mantalini, in a sort of lazy rapture.