“OH, EBENEZER!” DICKENS cried. “Did no one tell you the purpose of tonight’s event? For shame. I can only imagine how all this must make you feel!”
I stood in the crowded, oppressive foyer where a placard boldly revealed the legend, “An Evening of Hope sponsored by the Haberdashers’ Peacock Charity for Poor Debtors.”
A charity for poor debtors, of all things. I shuddered. The party would be a frightful event, a terrible soiree of hypocrisy, with the wealthy classes of London, swollen with noblesse oblige, pretending to care for an instant about the plights of the less fortunate. My face contorted in disgust. “This is nothing but butter upon bacon!”
“Yes, it’s a bit excessive,” Dickens conceded. “I suggest describing yourself as an investment banker, if the question should arise, which i
