” “It isn’t,” said Mr. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. ’ ‘About me?’ The lady’s lashes fluttered and her fan came up. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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