With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. Kneebone took his leave. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence.
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