held out in reply to their remonstrances; and the lawyer, who was short and fat, and could not have knocked a man down, had it been to save his life, backed out of the melee, and contented himself with issuing forth confused threatenings of the terrors of the law.  Miss Carlyle stood her ground majestically, and looked on with a grim countenance.  Had she interfered for his protection, she could not have been heard; and if she could have been, there’s no knowing whether she would have done it.

On, to the brink of the pond—­a green, dank, dark, slimy sour, stinking pond.  His coat-tails were gone by this time, and sundry rents and damages appeared in—­in another useful garment.  One pulled him, another pushed him, a third shook him by the collar, half a dozen buffeted him, and all abused him.

“In with him, boys!”

“Mercy!  Mercy!” shrieked the victim, his knees bending and his teeth chattering—­“a little mercy for the love of Heaven!”

“Heaven!  Much he knows of Heaven!”

A souse, a splash, a wild cry, a gurgle, and Sir Francis Levison was floundering in the water, its green poison, not to mention its adders and thads and frogs, going down his throat by bucketfuls.  A hoarse, derisive laugh, and a hip, hip, hurrah! broke from the actors; while the juvenile ragtag, in wild delight, joined their hands round the pool, and danced the demon’s dance, like so many red Indians.  They had never had such a play acted for them before.

Out of the pea-soup before he was quite dead, quite senseless.  Of all drowned rats, he looked the worst, as he stood there with his white, rueful face, his shivery limbs, and his dilapidated garments, shaking the wet off him.  The laborers, their duty done, walked coolly away; the tagrag withdrew to a safe distance, waiting for what might come next; and Miss Carlyle moved away also.  Not more shivery was that wretched man than Lady Isabel, as she walked by her side.  A sorry figure to cut, that, for her once chosen cavalier.  What did she think of his beauty now?  I know what she thought of her past folly.

Miss Carlyle never spoke a word.  She sailed on, with her head up, though it was turned occasionally to look at the face of Madame Vine, at the deep distressing blush which this gaze called into her cheeks.  “It’s very odd,” thought Miss Corny.  “The likeness, especially in the eyes, is—­Where are you going, madame?”

They were passing a spectacle shop, and Madame Vine had halted at the door, one foot on its step.  “I must have my glasses to be mended, if you please.”

Miss Carlyle followed her in.  She pointed out what she wanted done to the old glasses, and said she would buy a pair of new ones to wear while the job was about.  The man had no blue ones, no green; plenty of white.  One ugly, old pair of green things he had, with tortoise-shell rims, left by some stranger, ages and ages ago, to be mended, and never called for again.  This very pair of ugly old green things was chosen by Lady Isabel.  She put them on, there and then, Miss Carlyle’s eyes searching her face inquisitively all the time.