"The night before last, Mr. “I think she would,” she decided. Another long interval elapsed. 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. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London.
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