The truth was impossible, indecent. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. ‘Eh bien, pig. Yes, of course. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. It was the beginning of June. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson.
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